iiiiiiMiiilMiilMiiiiniiiiiHiHiMuinmiiiniuiHiim 









Class _BAZai£ 

Book._Ji±___ 



CDpyiightN?. 



CfiPXRlGIfr DEPOSm 



«HORT STORIES OF THE HYMNS 



^Ijnrt ^tnnm nf % ^i^mm 



Being a Beief Account of the Circumstances 

IN WHICH Some of our Best Hymns 

AND Songs were Written 



BY 

Henky Maetyn Kieffeb 



J> 



Author of "The Recollections of a Drummer Boy," "College 

Chapel Sermons," "The First Settlers of the Forks 

of the Delaware." "It is to Laugh." "The 

Funny Bone," etc. 



StEINMAN & FOLTZ 
LANCASTER, PA. 



^\j^\^ 






,\(^ 



Copyright, 1912 
By Henry Martyn Kieffer 



©CLA328483 



To My Wife 

TO WHOSE MOST EFFICIENT AND FAITHFUL AID THE 

PREPARATION OF THIS VOLUME IS DUE, IT IS 

MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



|[rrfa» 



PREFACE 



The purpose of this little book is to 
present to its readers some brief account 
of the origin and authorship of some of 
our more familiar hymns. It is not the 
purpose to attempt to cover the whole 
ground of Christian hymnology, in its 
simply historical aspect, as that would 
demand the preparation of a book of 
very considerable dimensions. It is pro- 
posed, simply, to select from a very large 
amount of material which the author 
has for years past been gathering, a few 
of the more striking and interesting 
incidents connected with the composi- 
tion of some of our best known Songs of 
Zion. In doing this free use will be made 
of such works on the subject as either a 
private or a public library will afford, 



6 l^nUti 

while some assistance, and that not in- 
considerable, will be found in certain 
carefully kept scrap-books of apoplectic 
dimension and appearance, the joint 
product of scissors, paste, and patience 
for many years past. 

It is quite possible, truly, that this 
little book may traverse some ground 
already familiar to some of its readers, 
but it is believed that to the great ma- 
jority of them the story of the hymns is 
new, and will prove interesting and pro- 
fitable. At all events, it will be an 
advantage to all who have not access 
to special works on the subject, to have 
in hand, gathered up in brief compass 
and available shape, such facts con- 
nected w^ith the origin of the hymns, as 
the author, after some years of patient 
search, has found most interesting and 
instructive to himself. 

Atlantic City, N. J. 



^Ijfxirt #t0m0 0f % %mn0 



CHAPTER I 

Our Hymns — where did they come 
from? As you take your seat in your 
pew on the Sunday morning, and open 
your hymn book to find the hymn which 
the minister has just announced, does it 
ever occur to you to inquire, as you look 
at the hymn, ^'Who wrote this hymn? 
Why ? And under what circumstances ? ' ' 
Your hymn book may perhaps of itself 
tell you the name of the author and the 
date of its composition — but that is 
very little information. Let us say, 
for example, that the hymn which the 
minister has announced is, 

"Blest be the tie that binds 

Our hearts in Christian love! 
The fellowship of kindred minds 
Is like to that above." 



Your hymn book may indeed tell you 
that this was written by one John Faw- 
cett, in the year 1772. But these bare 
facts have very little interest for you. 
Who was John Fawcett, and why, and 
under what circumstances did he write 
this good old hymn? If we could only 
get at that, perhaps we should find a new 
interest and see a new meaning in this 
grand old song of Christian fellowship. 
If a person has not yet started such in- 
quiries as these in his own mind in ref- 
erence to at least some of the hymns we 
are accustomed to use in the service of 
the sanctuary, he has not a little yet 
to learn in connection with the general 
subject of singing in church. No one 
can understand a hymn, or at least ap- 
preciate it aright, or feel the full power 
of its meaning, unless he knows somewhat 
of the spirit which actuated its com- 
poser and the outward circumstances 
which called it forth. 



Such historical knowledge of the hymns 
adds a new interest to them. It is true 
here as it is true generally — that our 
knowledge of the history of a thing is the 
measure of our interest in it. Whether 
it concern the earth which we inhabit, 
the language we use, the laws by which 
we are governed, or anything whatso- 
ever with which we have to do, history is 
in all respects one of the noblest, most 
refining and instructive branches of study. 
And everything has had a history. The 
mountains which rise towering toward 
the sky, and which seem to have been 
from everlasting, were not always where 
they are now. The rivers did not al- 
ways flow in their present channels 
toward the sea. The continents were 
at one time at the bottom of the ocean. 
Earthquakes, volcanic action, changes 
of climate, and a thousand other in- 
fluences have conspired to make the 



10 ^If0rt ^ttxtuB of tijfie %mn0 

earth what it is. It has had a history. 
And it derives a new interest for us the 
moment we begin to read and study 
and examine into the manifold changes 
through which it has passed. Indeed, 
anything develops a new significance 
the moment you learn something of its 
past. The piece of coal which you 
unthinkingly toss into your stove be- 
comes a something more when you 
learn that it is older than the family of 
man: that it once was a piece of wood 
and grew in a forest, the like of which 
is now nowhere to be found, and of 
which, if it only had a tongue, it could 
tell a most wonderful story. Now hold 
it in your hand, and turn it over, and 
look at it in wonder. So, too, the words 
which we daily use, have had, each and 
all of them, a history — often a very 
beautiful and instructive history; and 
when one once begins to go to his die- 



#I|0rt Btatxta 0f % %mn0 11 

tionary, and studies the origin of words 
and the changes through which they 
have passed, language ceases to be the 
dead thing it formerly was esteemed, 
and becomes living, interesting, instruc- 
tive. 

So it is with our hymns. We have 
been using many of them ever since we 
could sing; and we have sung them not 
knowing where they came from, by 
whom written, when or where or why; 
not knowing but they may have been 
dropped down from the skies; not know- 
ing, even while we sang them, that each 
has had its lesson of instruction in the 
very circumstances which gave it birth. 
We were like our ancestors of an hundred 
years ago who roamed over the hills of 
central Pennsylvania never suspecting 
the vast mineral treasures which had 
been laid up in store beneath their feet. 

There are probably very few, if any, 



of our readers who have not often joined 
in singing, 

"Come, Thou Fount of every blessing. 
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace; 
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, 
Call for songs of loudest praise. " 

Yet — who wrote it? It was written 
by a certain Robert Robinson, of Cam- 
bridge, England. He was born in the 
year 1735, and was converted under the 
preaching of Whitefield. He is said to 
have been a man of unusual mental en- 
dowment, and shortly after his conver- 
sion he became a preacher. Unfortun- 
ately, he was also a man of a restless 
disposition, unstable in his thinking, 
always going from one thing to another, 
and eventually became an infidel. It 
would seem, from a careful perusal of 
this hymn, that when he wrote it in the 
first enthusiasm of his conversion, he 



^lj[0rt ^t0rtfa of % %m«a 13 

was sensible of the unsettled character 
of his own mind and heart; for you will 
notice how, in the last verse, he pleads 
piteously for the grace of constancy — 

*'0h, to graee how great a debtor 

Daily I'm constrained to be! 
Let that grace now, like a fetter. 

Bind my wand 'ring heart to Thee! 
Prone to wander. Lord, I feel it — 

Prone to leave the God I love — 
Here's my heart — Oh take and seal it. 

Seal it from Thy courts above!" 

In connection with the history of this 
hymn, it is related that the author of it 
was one day traveling by coach and had 
for his fellow passenger a lady, an entire 
stranger to him. She had lately seen 
this hymn, and admired it so much that 
in the course of conversation she asked 
him whether he had ever seen it, and 
whether he could tell her who was the 
author of it? At first he avoided her 



questions, for he was at that very moment 
an avowed infidel. But as she pressed 
him for an answer and began to tell him 
what a blessing and comfort that one 
hymn had been to her soul, he at length 
burst into a passionate flood of tears, 
exclaiming, "'Madam, I am the poor 
unhappy man who composed that hymn 
many years ago; and I would give a 
thousand worlds, if I had them, to enjoy 
the feeling I then had!" The poor man 
died hopeless. Alas, that one should 
preach the gospel and himself be a cast- 
away ! 

Let us take another familiar hymn 
which, like the above, we often sing at 
the opening of service, and which is 
frequently used when ministers and lay- 
men meet in Conventions, Assemblies, 
Conferences and Synods — 



B^att Btaxxte^ of % Ifijmtts 15 

"I love Thy kingdom, Lord, 
The house of Thine abode; 
The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
With His own precious blood. " 

For this most excellent hymn we are 
indebted to Timothy D wight, D. D., 
one of the many celebrated Presidents of 
Yale College. He was born in Massa- 
chusetts in 1752. His father was a mer- 
chant, his mother the third daughter of 
Jonathan Edwards. He was a bright 
boy, learned the alphabet at a single 
lesson, could read the Bible at the age of 
four years; was ready for college at eight, 
entered at thirteen and graduated at 
seventeen. He at first devoted himself 
to the study of law, but found his way 
into the ministry, and was appointed a 
Chaplain in the Continental army in 
1777. In 1795 he was elected President 
of Yale College. It is said of him that 
he was capable of doing an almost in- 



credible amount of intellectual work, and 
that after working and studying all day 
he would sit up far into the night writing 
poetry. It was, no doubt, over the mid- 
night oil, after a long day's work had 
been done for the Church of Christ, that 
he took his pen and wrote, as if anew 
consecrating himself to the service of 
the Master — 

"I love Thy kingdom. Lord, 
The house of Thine abode; 
The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
With His own precious blood. 

I love Thy Church, Oh God! 

Her walls before Thee stand 
Dear as the apple of Thine eye. 

And graven on Thy hand. 

For her my tears shall fall. 

For her my prayers ascend. 
To her my cares and toils be given, 

Till toils and cares shall end. " 



As we read these burning words of self- 
consecration to the Redeemer's Church 
and Kingdom, one can imagine and al- 
most in fancy see the weary Yale College 
President at the midnight hour, perhaps, 
when the day's work was done and all 
the house was still, bending over his 
study table which with him, as with 
many another minister of Christ, had 
become a veritable altar of the Lord, 
with an aching head and a tired hand 
writing these words so familiar to us all. 
This hymn, which breathes a spirit of 
such consecration to the Church of 
Christ, could have been written only by 
one who had first of all really consecrated 
himself to God's service and praise, and 
it never can have its full power save only 
with those who, like the author of it, 
have indeed laid themselves on the altar 
of the Gospel. 

It is worthy of observation that many 



18 ^l|0rt BtnvxtB nf th[t %mtta 

of our most celebrated hymns were com- 
posed by ministers of the Gospel. And 
it is also worthy of remark how even they 
do not seem at all times to have been 
equally prepared for so difficult a work as 
hymn-writing, but appear to have been 
moved by the good spirit of God to an 
almost irresistible impulse on certain oc- 
casions of rare inspiration, when their 
hearts were aflame and their lips aglow 
with a fire kindled by a live coal from 
the altar. It has largely been in con- 
nection with pastoral care or pulpit 
labor that our noblest songs of Zion first 
saw the light of day. Hymns, that is to 
say good hymns, were never, or at least 
very seldom, written with much fore- 
thought or conscious premeditation. 
They were born, rather, out of a full 
heart and an overmastering inspiration, 
when the heart was all aglow with heav- 
enly light and warmth, and when the 



^I|0rt BUtxtB flf % %mtt0 19 

intellect and the imagination were raised 
up, for the time being, to a higher plane 
than usual. Like the holy men of old, 
our hymn- writers ^* Spake as they were 
moved by the Holy Ghost. '' 

Here is another hymn which we often 
sing. It was composed by a minister 
and was drawn from or was suggested 
by ministerial experiences — 

"Blest be the tie that binds 
Our hearts in Christian love; 
The fellowship of kindred minds 
Is like to that above. 



When we asunder part 

It gives us inward pain; 
But we shall still be joined in heart. 

And hope to meet again. 



>> 



In the course of the narrative of the 
circumstances connected with the writ- 



ing of this hymn, it will be observed how 
pastor and people are far more attached 
to one another than either is aware of, 
till they come to part. The relation 
between pastor and people seems to be 
so sacredly close and so tenderly affec- 
tionate, that it cannot be broken with- 
out great pain. So it was, at least with 
John Fawcett, the author of the above 
hymn. It is related that after he had 
been a few years in the ministry, his 
family (as is often the case), ''increasing 
far more rapidly than his income,'' he 
determined to make a change in his 
pastoral relations by leaving the con- 
gregation he had been serving, and 
settling in a Baptist church in London. 
Accordingly, much to the regret of his 
people, he delivered his farewell sermon 
to them, and shortly thereafter made 
final preparations for the removal of his 
family and household goods. On the 



day appointed for the moving, surround- 
ed by his weeping parishioners, he was 
busily engaged in loading furniture, 
boxes and bundles, on six or seven 
wagons which were to carry him and his 
to his new field of labor. All the while 
this was going on his poor people stood 
around him weeping, and praying him 
that he would even yet change his mind, 
clinging to him and begging him to 
remain with them. The last wagon was 
finally loaded, and the pastor and his 
wife sat down on an empty box, to weep 
with the people before saying a last 
good-bye to them. "'Oh, John,'' said 
the good wife, "I cannot bear this. I 
know not how to go.'' ''No," said he, 
' ' nor I either. And — well — and we won't 
go, either! Unload the wagons and put 
everything in the place where it was be- 
fore!" The London church was at once 
informed by letter that the Rev. John 



Fawcett had changed his mind and would 
not become their pastor, and while the 
unloading of the six wagons was going 
on, and amid such rejoicing as we may 
imagine, he sat down and wrote, with a 
full heart and a trembling hand, that 
beautiful hymn of Christian fellowship 
which will be sung until all the saints 
are reunited in Heaven, — 

"Blest be the tie that binds 
Our hearts in Christian love!'* 




CHARLES WESLEY. 



^tfiirt ^tortw 0f % %mti0 23 



CHAPTER II 

The story of the very favorite and 
beautiful hymn, "'Jesus, lover of my 
soul,'' has often been told, but as it will 
bear frequent repetition, we venture to 
tell it once again. Your hymn book will 
probably tell you that it was written by 
Charles Wesley in the year 1740, but it 
will not tell you the circumstances of 
trouble and danger by which it was 
wrung out of his heart, a knowledge of 
which alone will enable one to grasp the 
full meaning and power of this deathless 
hymn. 

The story runs that Charles Wesley 
and his brother John were one evening 
holding an open air meeting on the com- 
mon. It was during the rise of Method- 
ism in England, and the preachers of the 



new denomination were frequently as- 
sailed by the mob and pelted with stones. 
In the midst of the services the mob 
came down on the preachers and dis- 
persed the meeting, compelling the Wes- 
ley brothers to flee for their lives. They 
at first took refuge behind a hedge where 
they protected themselves as well as 
they could against the shower of stones 
rattling around them, and shortly after, 
in the gathering darkness, found a safe 
retreat in a certain spring-house. Here 
they struck a light with flint and tinder, 
dusted their clothes and bathed their 
bruises in the water of a spring which 
there bubbled forth in a refreshing stream. 
This done, they sat there listening and 
waiting for a safe time to go to their 
homes ; and while thus at leisure, Charles 
Wesley pounded a piece of lead into a 
rude pencil and wrote on a scrap of 
paper his immortal hymn, 



"Jesus, lover of my soul. 
Let me to thy bosom fly. " 

If the hymn be read carefully, it will be 
observed how the circumstances of dan- 
ger and trial under which it was composed 
have been, as by a masterly inspiration, 
woven into its very warp and woof. 
The angry mob furnished the conception 
of the ''nearer waters,'' ''the tempest,'* 
and "the storm/' With reference to 
their having sheltered their heads behind 
the hedge, he wrote 



a 



Cover my defenceless head 
With the shadow of Thy wing. 



The spring-house and the hedge sug- 
gested the line, "Safe into the haven 
guide," and the cool waters of the spring 
became a type of Him who is the "Foun- 
tain opened in Israel for sin and unclean- 
ness," of whose waters if a man drink 



he shall never thirst again, and of whom 
the poet wrote those words which will 
never cease to be sung until we all drink 
of the waters of the ^' River of Life'' in 
Heaven — 

"Plenteous grace with Thee is found, 
Grace to cover all my sin; 
Let the healing streams abound, 
Make and keep me pure within. 

Thou of life the fountain art. 

Freely let me take of Thee, 
Spring Thou up within my heart. 

Rise to all eternity." 

This hymn, especially when sung with 
some knowledge of its historical origin, 
is the prayer of the persecuted believer 
fleeing to Christ for protection and help. 
To the true believer the world often 
appears not only a desert, but a desert 
swept by a continual storm. It is only 
in Christ that we find refreshment and 



safety. "In the world ye shall have 
tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have 
overcome the world/' 

A War Incident 

A party of Northern tourists formed 
part of a large company gathered on the 
deck of an excursion steamer that was 
moving slowly down the historic Potomac 
one beautiful evening in the summer of 
1881. A gentleman, who has since gained 
a national reputation as an evangelist 
of song, had been delighting the party 
with his happy rendering of many fami- 
liar hymns, the last being the sweet 
petition so dear to every Christian heart, 
"Jesus, lover of my soul.'' 

The singer gave the first two verses 
with much feeling, and a peculiar em- 
phasis upon the concluding lines that 
thrilled every heart. A hush had fallen 
upon the listeners that was not broken 



28 ^iynrt BtatiiB of tl|^ l^gmna 

for some seconds after the musical notes 
had died away. Then a gentleman made 
his way from the outskirts of the crowd 
to the side of the singer, and accosted 
him with, ''Beg pardon, stranger, but 
were you actively engaged in the late 
war?" 

''Yes, sir," the man of song answered, 
courteously; "I fought under General 
Grant." 

"Well," the first speaker continued 
with something like a sigh, "I did my 
fighting on the other side, and think, in- 
deed am quite sure, I was very near you 
one bright night eighteen years ago this 
very month. It was very much such a 
night as this. If I am not mistaken, 
you were on guard duty. We of the 
South had sharp business on hand, and 
you were one of the enemy. I crept 
near your post of duty, my murderous 
weapon in hand. The shadows hid me. 



Your beat led you into the clear light. 
As you paced back and forth you were 
humming the tune you have just sung. 
I raised my gun and aimed at your heart, 
and I had been selected by our com- 
mander for the work because I was a 
sure shot. Then, out upon the night 
rang the words — 

'Cover my defenceless head 
With the shadow of Thy wing. ' 

Your prayer was answered. I couldn't 
fire after that. And there was no attack 
made on your camp that night. I felt 
sure, when I heard you sing this evening, 
that you were the man whose life I was 
spared from taking.'' 

The singer grasped the hand of the 
Southerner, and said, with much emo- 
tion: ''I remember the night very well, 
and distinctly the feeling of depression 
and loneliness with which I went forth 



to my duty. I knew my post was one 
of great danger, and I was more dejected 
than I remember to have been at any 
time during the service. I paced my 
lonely beat, thinking of home and friends 
and all that life holds dear. Then the 
thought of God's care for all that He has 
created came to me with peculiar force. 
If He so cares for the sparrow, how much 
more for man created in His own image .'^ 
And I sang the prayer of my heart, and 
ceased to feel alone. How the prayer 
was answered I never knew until this 
evening. My heavenly Father thought 
best to keep the knowledge from me for 
eighteen years. How much of His good- 
ness to us we shall be ignorant of until 
it is revealed by the light of eternity! 
'Jesus, lover of my soul,' has been a 
favorite hymn to me; now it will be in- 
expressibly dear. ' ' 



g>l|0rt BttttxtB 0f % ^gmttfii 31 

The incident given in the above sketch 
is a true one, and was related by a lady 
who was one of the party on the steamer. 



32 ^l|0rt BtatxtB 0f tty? %mtta 



CHAPTER III 

Trial, trouble, affliction, sorrow — out 
of these have come our sweetest songs of 
Zion. Who is there but knows that the 
most beautiful and touching of the 
Psalms were written at times when their 
authors were in the depths of distress 
and anguish? So true is the general 
principle that Sorrow and Song go hand 
in hand, like twin sisters, that a careful 
analysis of our hymnbooks will show 
that those hymns which are most en- 
deared to us all were composed at times 
when their authors were in the greatest 
possible trouble of mind and heart. At 
this we need not be at all surprised as 
though it were something strange or 
unusual; for it seems to be a general law, 
prevaihng in the world of nature, even. 



and much more in the world of mind, 
that low things are the necessary ante- 
cedents of high things. In God's crea- 
tion chaos goes before cosmos, always, 
and the night before the morning. As 
the lark that soars the highest builds her 
nest the lowest; as the nightingale that 
sings so sweetly, sings, not under the 
noonday sun, but in the shade where all 
things rest — and sings best, too, when a 
needle is thrust through her eye; as the 
branches that are most laden with ripe 
fruit bend the lowest; as the lowly 
valleys are fruitful while the lofty moun- 
tains are barren, and the most fragrant 
spices will not yield their most precious 
perfumes until they are crushed and 
bruised — even so it seems with the human 
soul. This, too, like the olive, must be 
crushed ere it yield its fruit, and, like 
the nightingale sings its sweetest songs 
only when suffering the keenest anguish. 



The lives of the song-writers of Zion 
show, as few other Hves show, that 
^'through much tribulation must we 
enter into the kingdom of God/' For, 
the Latin word, ^Hribulum/' (from which 
the English word "tribulation'' has evi- 
dently been derived,) was the name for 
a flail. And so, what are "tribulations" 
but the blows of the heavenly husband- 
man's flail, threshings, as it were, of our 
inner spiritual man, whereby whatever 
is light, trivial, and poor in us is separ- 
ated from what is solid and true, the 
chaff from the wheat? As a quaint old 
poem saith — 

"Till from the straw the flail the corn doth beat. 
Until the chaff be purged from the wheat. 
Yea, till the mill the grains in pieces tear, 
The richness of the flour will scarce appear. 
So, till men's persons great afl3ictions touch. 
If worth be formed, their worth is not so much; 
Because, like wheat in straw, they have not yet 
That value which in threshing they may get. 



Bliart ^tflrlea af % Ifgmtta 35 

For, till the bruising flails of God's corrections 
Have threshed out of us our vain aflFections; 
Till those corruptions which do misbecome us 
Are, by the Sacred Spirit, winnowed from us; 
Until from us the straw of worldly treasures, 
Till all the dusty chaflF of empty pleasures. 
Yea, till His flail upon us He doth lay, 
To thresh the husk of this our flesh away, 
And leave the soul uncovered: nay, yet more — 
Till God shall make our very spirit poor. 
We shall not up to highest wealth aspire: 
But then we shall — and that is my desire!" 

Through such threshings of God's hand, 
through such uncovering of the soul 
and making poor of the very spirit of 
man, our sweetest song- writers evidently 
passed at the time when they composed 
these immortal hymns, which will never 
cease to be sung until God's children 
sing the new song in heaven. 

One remarkable illustration of this we 
haf e already noticed in connection with 
the distressing circumstances in which 



36 ^l|0rt BtttmB nf % IfgmttB 

Charles Wesley wrote the hymn, '^ Jesus, 
lover of my soul/' Closely allied to 
this, both in its substance and in the 
nature of the circumstances in which it 
originated, is that other beautiful hymn 
so dear to every believer's heart, ''Nearer, 
my God, to Thee." This was com- 
posed in the sick room. The author 
of it was Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, who 
for many weary months watched and 
waited by the bedside of a sister dying 
with consumption, until she was so en- 
feebled by a disease which she thus con- 
tracted, that she herself, shortly after the 
death of her sister, died, and so passed 
into that nearer relation to God for 
which she in her beautiful song so 
ardently longed. As one reads over the 
touching words of this undying song of 
the dying, as it may well be called, the 
image of the patient watcher, pale and 
haggard, rises to the view. Perhaps it 



#i|0rt ^tatxtB 0f % %mn0 37 

was in some lone night watch, when 
weary and faint, while all the house was 
hushed and all the world was still, she 
sat and wept, that that sweet song burst 
forth from her overburdened soul — 

"Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee. 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me. 
Still all my song shall be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee! 

Though like a wanderer. 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness be over me, 

My rest a stone — 
Yet in my dreams I'd be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee!" 

The writer once heard this hymn, 
^* Nearer, my God, to Thee," sung under 
very remarkable circumstances. It was 



38 Bl\ttvt StomiS 0f % %mna 

during the Civil War. On June 18th, 
1864, in one of our terrible battles in 
front of Petersburg, Va., one of my 
company fell. A ball had shattered his 
leg. Two of us picked him up and carried 
him on a stretcher to the Field Hospital 
in the rear. There were many wounded 
men there, all waiting their turn at the 
amputating table, and the surgeons were 
busy. When his turn came, we lifted 
him up on the table, and the surgeon 
said, ''Sorry, my boy, but your leg must 
come off, for the bone is all shattered 
by the ball." "All right," said the 
comrade. The chloroform was about 
to be administered when the boy said, 
''Wait a moment. Doctor, I want to 
pray." "Yes," was the answer, "but 
be quick about it, for others are waiting. " 
The boy covered his face with his two 
hands for a few moments, and then said, 
"Now, I'm ready. Go ahead." 



^I|0rt BUmB xtf % I|gmtt0 39 



Quickly sinking into merciful uncon- 
sciousness he lay under the knife, and 
with the first thrust of the long knife 
through his leg the patient broke into 
singing ''Nearer, my God, to Thee.'' 
He sang with a clear voice and an ap- 
parently unerring memory, missing none 
of the stanzas and singing the hymn 
through to the end. The surgeon worked 
swiftly and surely, and with the skill of 
a hand long used to the terrible work, 
pausing only twice during the operation 
to wipe the gathering mist from his 
eyes, for while he worked the boy sang 
on. When the operation was concluded, 
tears were on many a cheek weather- 
beaten and bronzed in long and hard 
service, and the surgeon said, ''I ven- 
ture to say that that boy comes from a 
Christian home somewhere away up 
North — and may God bless him.'' 

Akin to the general tenor of the hymn 



40 g>lf0rt ^tnma 0f % Ifgrntts 

mentioned above, is that ever beautiful 
even-song which is almost without a 
rival amongst our sacred melodies — 

** Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; 
The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!'* 

For this truly splendid and classical 
composition the Christian world is under 
lasting obligations to the Rev. Henry 
Francis Lyte, who was born at Kelso, 
Scotland, June 1, 1793, and died at 
Nice, 1847. Liberally educated at Trin- 
ity College, Dublin, he entered the ser- 
vice of the Master as a curate in the 
Church of England. In the earlier part 
of his ministry he settled in a dreary 
Irish parish, where he had many strug- 
gles with poverty. He seems, at this 
time, to have had but little hearty inter- 
est in his labors, and acknowledged 
afterward that he went through with 
the functions of his sacred office in a 



merely mechanical and lifeless way. 
But God took good care to arouse Henry 
Francis Lyte to a warmer zeal, for He 
had a grand work for him to do for the 
Church. For, about this time, that is 
while he was yet a curate in an obscure 
parish in Ireland, being called one day 
to the bedside of a neighboring clergy- 
man who was dying, and had sent for 
Lyte in great agony, "because he was 
unpardoned and unprepared to die,'' 
this sad scene left so deep an impression 
on Lyte's mind that he says "I was 
deeply affected and brought to look at 
life and its issues with a different eye 
than before; and I began to study my 
Bible, and to preach in another manner 
than I had formerly done.'' It was to 
this revival in the heart and mind of 
this gifted man that we are indebted for 
the well known hymn — 



"Jesus, I my cross have taken, 
All to leave and follow Thee; 
Destitute, despised, forsaken — 
Thou from hence my all shalt be. '* 

Compelled at length by ill health to re- 
sign his charge, he settled at Brixham, 
a seaport town in the county of Devon, 
having probably chosen this location 
for the advantage which the sea air, as it 
was hoped, would afford him. The 
population was largely composed of 
rough, but warm-hearted fishermen, 
amongst whom he spent the remainder 
of his days, in many and sore struggles 
with poverty. Here he ''made hymns 
for his little ones, hymns for his hardy 
fishermen, and hymns for sufferers like 
himself.'' It was here too, that he 
wrote ''Abide with me,'' which was the 
last, as it was also the finest hymn which 
he ever composed. 

The story of the composition of it is 



#Iynrt ^tamB at % ^^mm 43 

truly touching, and sheds great Hght 
upon its meaning. He had been in ill 
health a long time — scarcely able any 
more to preach to his dear people. But 
though, as he says, "I was scarcely able 
to crawl, I made one more effort to 
preach and administer the Holy Com- 
munion. '" As his people surrounded 
the table of the Lord, they were all made 
to feel, both by the deep solemnity of 
his manner and by the earnest words 
with which he addressed them, that their 
pastor was amongst them for the last 
time. Many tearful eyes witnessed the 
distribution of the sacred elements as 
given out by one who already stood on 
the borders of the blessed land beyond. 
Having with his dying breath given a 
last adieu to his sorrowing flock, he re- 
tired to his chamber fully aware of the 
near approach of the end; and shortly 
afterward, as his sun was drawing near 



to his setting, he handed to a friend this 
immortal hymn, which, accompanied by 
music which his own hand had prepared, 
is indeed Hke the song of the swan, his 
sweetest as it was also his last — 

*' Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; 
The darkness deepens; Lord! with me abide; 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless ! Oh, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day, 
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; 
Change and decay in all around I see; 
Oh Thou who changest not, abide with me ! 



Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; 
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies ; 
Heaven's morning breaks and Earth's vain 

shadows flee; 
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me! ' * 

To the end of all time, or certainly 
until the English language shall cease to 



be spoken, this unparalleled version of 
Christ's twilight walk with the two dis- 
ciples to Emmaus will be sung. It will 
be the favorite even-song of worshiping 
congregations, and will never cease to 
cheer the souls of believers as they come, 
at last, to walk through the dark valley 
of the shadow of death. 

We turn attention to one more master- 
piece of sacred song, which, like the one 
above, was inspired by sickness, suffer- 
ing and unutterable weariness of soul. 
This is— 

"Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
Lead Thou me on." 

To one who has watched the setting 
sun, as it goes down amid a flood of 
crimson and gold, bathing the clouds 
in splendor, and opening up vistas of 
beauty unsuspected in the garish light of 
noon-day, there is something in this 
grand close of the day infinitely sugges- 



live of the glories of heaven. It may 
be but a few moments ere this swiftly 
vanishing vision of heaven's pearly gates 
and jasper walls and golden streets will 
pass away, but evanescent though it be, 
it is, to every pious and thoughtful soul, 
a standing and oft repeated promise of 
the glories which await the faithful in 
the better land beyond. 

It was the sight of the setting sun 
that suggested the hymn we are pre- 
sently considering. It was written by 
John Henry Newman. In 1833, while 
recovering from a severe illness, he was 
upon the Mediterranean for his health. 
One evening when the warmth had died 
out of the air, he sat upon the deck of 
the vessel wrapped in a shawl, weak and 
homesick, watching the sun descend 
through the Italian sky, and sink into the 
sea. As the last traces of light faded 
away in the west, the memory of home 



and of the past came strongly upon him. 
Retiring to his cabin, he at once com- 
posed the splendid hymn — 

"Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on; 
The night is dark and I am far from home. 

Lead Thou me on. 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene: one step enough for me." 

How much the Church of all ages has 
been, and ever to the end will be, depen- 
dent on the sufferings of her people for 
her purest and sweetest songs of praise, 
no one can tell. We only know that 
such is the case. It is in accordance with 
God's law everywhere manifest, that 
the sorrow must go before the song, as 
the darkness goes before the day, and 
the cross before the crown. Even in 
heaven, when God's people sing the new 
song which none save the redeemed of 



48 ^l|0rt ^taxxtB 0f tiff %mtt8i 

all ages can sing, it will, no doubt, be 
the preceding sorrows and sufferings 
endured on earth which alone will pro- 
perly fit that mighty host to swell ''the 
song of them that triumph and the 
shout of them that feast." 

Here is another hymn, a most touch- 
ing song of Christian resignation, wrung 
out of the very heart of a pious man 
by affliction and suffering — ''My Jesus, 
as Thou wilt." Its author, Benjamin 
Schmolke, was born about 1675. He was 
the son of a poor minister in Silesia, 
was educated for the ministry by some 
benevolent person, became his father's 
assistant in 1694, and was afterwards 
himself pastor at Schweidnitz. In 1730, 
he was paralysed and in part lost his 
sight. Then his home burned down, 
and all his little property was destroyed. 
Next his wife died, and one by one all 
his children passed away — and then. 



homeless and friendless, as the nightingale 
sings most sweetly in her pain, and as 
the olive yields no oil till beaten and 
bruised, he gave to the Church through- 
out the world a classic song of Christian 
resignation which will be loved and sung 
until sorrow shall be no more. This 
grand old German hymn has been most 
admirably translated by Miss Wink- 
worth — 

"My Jesus, as Thou wilt! 

Oh, may Thy will be mine! 
Into Thy hand of love 

I would my all resign; 
Through sorrow, or through joy. 

Conduct me as Thine own. 
And help me still to say — 

My Lord, Thy will be done! 

My Jesus, as Thou wilt! 

Though seen through many a tear. 
Let not my star of hope 

Grow dim or disappear: 



50 ^If0rt BtatxiB of % Ifgmtta 

Since Thou on earth hast wept 

And sorrowed oft alone, 
If I must weep with Thee — 

My Lord, Thy will be done! 

My Jesus as Thou wilt! 

All shall be well for me; 
Each changing future scene 

I gladly trust with Thee : 
Straight to my home above 

I travel calmly on. 
And sing, in life or death. 

My Lord, Thy will be done!'' 

This hymn, we think and venture to 
say, should always be sung to "Jewett'' 
— one of Carl Maria Von Weber's ex- 
quisite flights of song — for this is like 
no other in its intimate interpretation 
of the prayerful words. The tune, ar- 
ranged by Joseph Holbrook, is from an 
opera — the overture to Weber's ''Der 
Freischiitz/' 



g^Iinrt ^tavxiB txf % Ifgmtta 51 



CHAPTER IV 

Nowhere, perhaps, is the feeHng of 
fellowship and communion with all of 
God's people everywhere so prominent 
as in the hymns we sing. It has often 
been remarked that a true hymn must 
not express what is peculiar to the in- 
dividual who composes it, nor even to the 
class or community to which he may 
chance to belong. It must breathe a 
broad and truly catholic spirit. It must 
give expression to feelings or sentiments 
which are common to all Christians. It 
must give voice to the conscious faith of 
the whole church. Such a hymn will 
live: and if you will look into the matter 
carefully, you will find, too, that only 
such do live. A distinctively Methodist 
hymn, for example, is doomed to an 



52 #I|0rt BtsxtUB 0f tlj^ Ifgrntta 

early death. A strongly Presbyterian 
hymn will never live to be twenty-one 
years old. But a truly catholic hymn, 
that is, one that breathes a broad and 
liberal Christian spirit, and expresses 
feelings, hopes, fears, confessions, such 
as are common to all Christian people, 
will live forever. Charles Wesley wrote 
*' Jesus, lover of my soul," but there is 
nothing said in it about the peculiar tenets 
of the Methodist denomination. Sarah 
Flower Adams wrote ''Nearer, my God, 
to Thee,'' and she was a Unitarian, but 
we fail to find any traces of Unitarianism 
in her beautiful hymn. Denomination- 
alism seems to be very good and proper 
in the catechism or in the confession of 
faith, but it seems quite out of place in 
the hymn book. If there is one point 
where people of different church relations 
do meet on common ground, and hold 
sweet communion and fellowship with one 



^I|0rt BtttmB 0f % 2|gmnj0 53 

another, it is in the hymn book. All 
Christian people seem to have vested 
rights in the songs of Zion, for they have 
all contributed their portion to the general 
collection. Here Luther's hymn '' A 
mighty fortress is our God/' stands side 
by side with the beautiful songs of the 
middle-age monks, as 

"Jesus, the very thought of Thee 
With sweetness fills my breast, " 

and 

"Jerusalem, the golden, 
With milk and honey blest." 

Here the author of ''Nearer, my God, 
to Thee" stands side by side with 
the author of ''I love Thy kingdom, 
Lord.'' Here the Baptist sings ''Blest 
be the tie that binds,'' and the Methodist 
"All hail the power of Jesus' name." 



We are diflFerent in our ways of worship- 
ing and in our theology, but we hold to 
the same Bible and use essentially the 
same hymns of praise. 

A very large proportion of our best 
hymns we owe to the remarkable genius of 
the Rev. Dr. Isaac Watts. He was born 
in England, 1674, and was a minister of the 
Gospel in what was known in those days 
as the ''Independent Church'' — a body 
of believers which arose in the reign of 
Queen Elizabeth, and which was dis- 
tinguished from Episcopacy on the one 
hand and Presbytery on the other. From 
his earliest years he was noted for his 
piety as well as the remarkable brilliancy 
of his mind. Like Zaccheus of old, he was 
a very small man physically, being both 
short of stature and slender in form. It 
is related that on one occasion, when he 
was stopping over night at a hotel, some 
curious stranger, on ascertaining who the 



-^r^' 




'w^:-'- ^^*^m 




ISAAC WATTS. 



little man was, exclamed, in a somewhat 
louder tone than he had intended," What! 
is that great Dr. Watts!'' It was not 
designed that this should be overheard; 
but the little man had very sharp ears, 
and at once turned toward his critic and 
replied : 

"Were I so tall to reach the pole, 
Or grasp the ocean in my span, 
I must be measured by my soul — 
The mind's the measure of the man. " 

Watts is only one example out of many 
of the general truth that it hath pleased 
the good Lord to make use of the weak 
things of this world to accomplish His 
wonderful purposes. Like many other 
great and useful preachers, Watts was 
very weak physically, being in fact an 
invalid; and yet he served his church 
faithfully for a period of fifty years. 
After preaching he was frequently so 



56 ^Ij0rt ^turns 0f % %mn0 

much exhausted as to be obhged to 
go directly to his house and retire at 
once to bed, having his room closed 
in darkness and silence. Yet, though 
physically small to insignificance, and 
often sick and weak to utter prostration, 
he placed the Church of Christ, in all 
lands and in every age, under lasting 
obligations for the most excellent hymns 
which came from his pen. He wrote a 
great many hymns, of which some, of 
course, are of inferior merit; but at the 
same time it is calculated that ''more 
hymns which approach to a very high 
standard of excellence may be found in 
his works than in those of any other 
English writer." Among these may be 
mentioned, 

"When I survey the wondrous cross 
On which the Prince of Glory died, 
My richest gain I count but loss, 
And pour contempt on all my pride. " 



^Ifort ^tama at % %mna 57 



(( 



Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 
Does his successive journeys run: 
His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, 
Till moons shall wax and wane no more. " 



Joy to the world, the Lord is come! 

Let earth receive her king. 
Let every heart prepare Him room. 

And heaven and nature sing. " 



My soul repeat His praise. 
Whose mercies are so great: 

Whose anger is so slow to rise, 
So ready to abate." 



"Oh God, our help in ages past. 
Our hope for years to come. 
Our shelter from the stormy blast. 
And our eternal home. " 



58 ^If0rt S^t0rt^0 Bf % %mnfi 



"Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
Ye nations bow with sacred joy; 
Know that the Lord is God alone, 
He can create and He destroy. '' 

Concerning the last example here given, 
which the reader will recognize as Watts' 
version of the One Hundredth Psalm, 
it may be well to remark that the first 
stanza is Wesley's, not Watts'. As origi- 
nally written by Watts, the Psalm read, 

" Sing to the Lord with joyful voice; 
Let every land His name adore: 
The British Isles shall send the noise 
Across the ocean to the shore." 

The second stanza ran — 

** Nations attend before His throne 
With solemn fear, with sacred joy. " 

The Church in all lands is under 
lasting obligations to Wesley for having 



Bl^att BtxtmB nf % %mtt0 59 

swept all this away, and for substituting 
in its stead that truly grand and thrill- 
ing first verse, *^ Before Jehovah's awful 
throne. '' 

The hymn, '^ There is a land of pure 
delight,'' also comes from the pen of 
Dr. Watts. He was sitting one evening 
looking out of a window over the river 
Itchen in Southampton, and in full view 
of the beautiful Isle of Wight, when he 
composed it. The scenery which there 
greets the eye of the beholder, it is said, 
is indeed a type of that Paradise of 
which the poet sang. The country be- 
yond the river rises from the margin of 
the flood, and swells into a boundless 
prospect, all mantled in the richest 
verdure of summer, checkered with for- 
est-growth and fruitful fields under the 
highest cultivation, and gardens and 
villas, and every adornment which the 



hand of man, in a series of ages, could 
create on such susceptible ground. 

As the poet looked upon the scenery 
thus presented to view, he was inspired 
to sing of the fairer prospect of that 
blessed and beautiful Canaan which to 
the eye of the believer, rises beyond the 
swelling flood of the Jordan of Death, 
and where — 

"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green; 
So to the Jews, old Canaan stood 
While Jordan rolled between." 



i>I|0rt BtViVltB 0f % I|gmat0 61 



CHAPTER V 

From hymns written by a man who 
was feeble physically let us pass to those 
of a man who was feeble mentally. The 
poet William Cowper was born 1731. 
He was the son of an English clergyman. 
From childhood he was shy, nervous, 
and physically feeble. At the age of 
eighteen he began the study of law, but 
did not well succeed. He gradually 
became melancholy, and made several 
attempts at suicide. Twenty times he 
put a bottle containing poison to his 
lips, but did not drink. Then he at- 
tempted to drown himself, and at last 
he tried hanging himself by a rope at 
the top of his door; but the rope broke, 
and other means failing he was forced 
to live on in spite of himself, for God had 



work for William Cowper to do. At 
length his friends placed him in an insane 
asylum, where after a period of two 
years he was restored mentally, and saved 
spiritually. Before his days ended, how- 
ever, his malady returned, and he died 
insane. 

And yet, to this poor mentally de- 
ranged man are we indebted for such 
masterpieces of hymnology as ''God 
moves in a mysterious way,'' "There is 
a fountain filled with blood," and ''Oh, 
for a closer walk with God. " 

The first of these, strange as it may 
seem, was composed while the author 
was under a cloud of temporary insanity. 
It is related that "when under the in- 
fluence of the fits of mental derangement 
to which he was subject, he most un- 
happily but firmly believed that the 
divine will was that he should drown 
himself in a particular part of the river 



#tfiirt S^tnmB 0f % %mnjg 63 

Ouse, some two or three miles from his 
residence at Olney. One evening he 
called for a post-chaise from one of the 
hotels in the town, and ordered the driver 
to take him to that spot, which he 
readily undertook to do as he well knew 
the place. On this occasion, however, 
several hours were consumed in seeking 
it, and utterly in vain. The man was 
at length reluctantly compelled to ac- 
knowledge that he had entirely lost the 
way.'' Cowper returned to his house, 
and was so impressed with the strange 
providence which had frustrated his 
design and prevented his rash inten- 
tion, that he immediately sat down and 
wrote the hymn so admirably descriptive 
of God's mysterious providence. Con- 
sidered by itself, and quite indepen- 
dently of the circumstances in which it 
was written, this hymn of Cowper's 
must always rank among the master- 



pieces of sacred poetry. Grand in con- 
ception and chaste in diction, each 
stanza presenting a new and striking 
image, and every hne forcibly develop- 
ing the underlying thought of the whole 
composition, it cannot fail to be regarded 
as a perfect gem of sacred song. God's 
planting His footsteps in the sea and 
riding upon the storm — treasuring up His 
bright designs deep in unfathomable 
mines — the dark and dreadful clouds of 
affliction big with mercy, and ready to 
break in blessing on the heads of God's 
people — the hiding of God's smiling face 
behind a frowning providence — it is not 
often one finds such exquisitely expres- 
sive and brilliant imagery as this woven 
into the warp and woof of sacred song, 
and with such consummate skill 

Besides this, Cowper wrote a great 
many other hymns, of which we shall 
mention only two. Cowper lived dur- 



^tycrt BtxtmB ttf % %mn0 65 

ing the times when Methodism arose in 
England, and some of his best compo- 
sitions were due to the inspiration of 
this rehgious movement. The Rev. John 
Newton, a friend of his, held meet- 
ings of a Methodistie kind which Cow- 
per frequently attended. On one occa- 
sion Newton requested him to prepare 
a hymn for his prayermeeting, and shortly 
thereafter the Olney prayermeeting sang 
for the first time a hymn which has long 
since encircled the globe with its hallowed 
influences — 

"There is a fountain filled with blood, 
Drawn from Immanuel's veins, 
And sinners plunged beneath that flood 
Lose all their guilty stains." 

The hymn, ''O, for a closer walk 
with God,'' we also owe to Cowper. It 
was probably written at a time when he 
had relapsed into deep melancholy and 



was wandering on the borders of in- 
sanity. Sadly and sorrowfully seeking 
again for the blessedness he knew when 
first he saw the Lord, and pitifully pray- 
ing for the return of the Holy Spirit, he 
at last succumbed to his malady, but 
died quietly and peacefully. Entering 
thus into rest at last, and joining the 
blessed company of the redeemed of all 
ages, he no doubt realized as never be- 
fore the beauty and sweetness of his 
own words, first sung in the humble 
Olney prayermeeting, 

"Then, in a nobler, sweeter song, 
I'll sing Thy power to save, 
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue 
Lies silent in the grave." 

The truth that it pleases the good 
Lord to employ the meanest agencies for 
the accomplishment of His purposes, is 
well illustrated in the history of the 



g>I|0rt BttitxtB nf % I|gmn0 67 

writer of the well-known hymn, "'Rock 
of Ages, Cleft for Me. " It was written 
by the Rev. Augustus Toplady (born 
1740), and first appeared, March, 1776, 
in "The Gospel Magazine,'' which he 
edited. But little is known of the im- 
mediate circumstances connected with 
the composition of this widely known 
hymn; but Toplady himself acknowl- 
edges that the hymn was, in a large 
measure, at least, indirectly due to the 
agency of an illiterate man, who, al- 
though he did not himself write the hymn, 
yet was the providential means of its 
being written by another. Toplady re- 
lates that when he was a boy, only six- 
teen years of age, while on a visit to 
Ireland in company with his widowed 
mother, he one day happened to stroll 
into a barn, where an earnest, but un- 
educated layman was preaching from 
the text: "Ye who sometime were afar 



68 ^l|0rt ^tnmB of % %mn0 



off, are made nigh by the blood of 
Christ/' The sermon made a deep and 
lasting impression upon the lad's mind; 
it led to his conversion; he became a 
useful and celebrated preacher; and, 
although he did much good work be- 
sides, he will in all probability be best 
and longest remembered as the author 
of ''Rock of Ages." Strange, that the 
influence of a sermon preached in a barn 
to a handful of people, by a man who 
could hardly spell his own name, should 
render possible, and indirectly produce, 
a hymn which should be translated into 
almost every tongue spoken by man, 
and which will continue to bring com- 
fort and cheer to God's people in every 
age to the end of time. 

The life and the work of a minister 
often seems discouraging enough. Often 
and often the preacher, seeing so little 
immediate results of his labors, is tempted 



to sit down in despair. Yet, who knows 
how great good may be done through 
his humble instrumentahty of which 
he will never hear in this world. See 
what was accomplished by one sermon, 
and that by a poor, uneducated man! 
Perhaps he never heard of it. Perhaps 
he was in his grave, this poor illiterate 
Irishman, before '^Rock of Ages'' found 
its way into every home and every 
church in England, and set out on its 
mission of comfort and cheer to the whole 
world. Only let us labor on, in season 
and out, and God will no doubt care for 
the results. "In the morning sow thy 
seed, and in the evening withhold not 
thy hand, for thou knowest not whether 
shall prosper, this or that, or whether 
they shall be both alike good.'' 



70 ^If0rt S^nvxtB 0f % %mtt0 



CHAPTER VI 

We have seen that many of our best 
hymns were originally suggested by the 
peculiar circumstances or special ex- 
periences of the persons who composed 
them. This seems to have been the 
case with the hymn, "Guide me, O Thou 
great Jehovah." It was written by the 
Rev. Dr. William Williams, who was an 
itinerant Methodist minister in the time 
of Whitefield during the eighteenth cen- 
tury. He was born in the year 1717 in 
Wales, was well educated, became a poet 
of no little celebrity, studied medicine, 
was converted during the Methodist 
movement then prevailing, and at length 
devoted himself to the work of the 
ministry. He labored diligently for over 
half a century in the service of the Master, 



traveling on an average nearly twenty- 
five hundred miles a year for more than 
forty years. His numerous and ex- 
tended journeys were generally made 
either on foot or on horseback, for in 
those days there were no railroads, and 
and in the country in which he labored 
there were few stagecoaches. There can 
be little doubt that his long and solitary 
journeys among the hills and over the 
moors, where he frequently lost his way 
and was forced to spend the night, in 
cold and hunger, under the open sky, 
suggested that ever beautiful song of 
the Christian pilgrim — 

"Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah, 
Pilgrim through this barren land; 
I am weak, but Thou art mighty. 
Hold me with Thy powerful hand; 
Bread of Heaven! 
Feed me now and evermore. 



Open now the crystal fountain 

Whence the healing streams do flow; 

Let the fiery, cloudy pillar 

Lead me all my journey through; 
Strong Deliverer! 

Be Thou still my strength and shield. " 

This may well be called the prayer of 
the Christian pilgrim. God's children in 
every age are ''strangers and pilgrims/' 
They are aliens in the world. They seek 
a country which heth afar, and a ''city 
whose builder and maker is God." 
They often lose their way, and fall into 
many misfortunes on their journey, and 
well may they daily pray and sing, 
"Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!" 

It may be here well worthy of remark 
that this hymn is usually sung to the 
good old tune of "Autumn," and that 
this was the tune played by the heroic 
band of musicians standing in water up 
to their waists on the deck of the ill- 



g>I|0rt ^tumB 0f % %mn0 73 

fated steamer, ^^The Titanic/' as she 
was sinking to her grave in the ocean, 
Sunday night, April 14-15, 1912, carry- 
ing with her 1635 men, women and 
children. What a pathetic appeal was 
not that playing of ''Guide me, O Thou 
great Jehovah'' — a prayerful petition 
to the great and almighty God who 
''holds the winds in His fist, and the 
seas in the hollow of His hand. " 

An additional very significant inci- 
dent in connection with this greatest of 
all marine disasters may here be very 
appropriately recorded. The incident is 
narrated in several newspapers of Phila- 
delphia, by Mr. Laurence Beasley, of 
New York City, a survivor. Mr. Beas- 
ley says: 

"One incident has occurred to me 
during the week that has elapsed since 
we landed in New York, that may be of 
interest especially to those who had 



friends on board. Among the pas- 
sengers were the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. 
Carter, who were on their way to Canada. 
Mr. Carter was instrumental in arrang- 
ing on the Sunday evening, a few hours 
before we struck, what he called 'a 
hymn sing-song.* 

^' There was no evening service, and he 
invited to the saloon such passengers as 
cared to come to sing hymns. Anyone 
was allowed to choose a hymn, and as 
many were present and were thoroughly 
enjoying the quite informal gathering, 
the singing went on to a quite late hour. 

''Mr. Carter was apparently well ac- 
quainted with the history of many of 
the hymns, their authors, where they 
were written and in w^hat circumstances, 
and he interested all present with his 
remarks on each hymn before it was 
sung. I recollect that many chose hymns 
dealing with safety at sea. Tor those 



§lj[0rt BtsxmB ^f % %mn0 75 

in peril on the sea' was sung by all with 
no hint of the peril that lay but a very 
few miles ahead. 

"Mr. Carter closed with a few words of 
thanks to the Purser for allowing him to 
use the saloon, made a few remarks as 
to the happy voyage we had had on a 
maiden trip and the safety there was in 
this vessel, and then the meeting closed 
with an impromptu prayer by him. 
This cannot have been more than two 
hours before the Titanic struck. My 
motive in mentioning this is that some 
of those who have lost relatives may like 
to know that their friends must have 
been helped and cheered at the last by 
the words they had sung but a short 
time before; the sound of singing voices 
must have been still a conscious one to 
many as they stood on the deck faced 
with the Teril on the Sea.''' 

Closely allied to this in point of senti- 



ment is that other well-known hymn, 
"My faith looks up to Thee/' The 
author of this was Dr. Ray Palmer, a 
native of Rhode Island. He graduated 
at Yale College in 1830, and after gradu- 
ation found his way to New York city, 
in great poverty, and there opened a 
school for young ladies. He had many 
struggles for a livelihood, was much 
alone and often weary and sad at heart, 
but he was a most earnest Christian. 
In December of the year in which he 
went to New York, he sat down in his 
lonely room and after a period of medi- 
tation on the Saviour's infinite love, and 
the need of more earnest self-consecra- 
tion to His service and praise, he wrote 
this hymn in his pocket memorandum 
book, never intending that it should be 
seen by another person. He wished no 
one's eyes ever to rest on those beautiful 
words of self-surrender to Christ, be- 



cause he regarded his hymn as a sacred 
prayer of his own to his Saviour, and 
would as Kttle have thought of pre- 
senting it to the pubhc as of making 
known the secrets of his own devotions. 
For two years he carried this hymn in 
his pocket, next to his heart. But the 
good Lord had need of that hymn, and 
took good care that the Hght and com- 
fort there was in it for milhons of sorrow- 
ing souls the world over, should not re- 
main hidden under a bushel, but be put 
on the candlestick that it might give 
light to all in the house. For, one day. 
Dr. Lowell Mason met young Ray Palmer 
on the street in Boston, and asked him 
to write a hymn for his ''Spiritual 
Songs'' which he was then preparing 
for the press. The young college gradu- 
ate then modestly drew from his pocket 
the lines ''My faith looks up to Thee,'' 
and gave them to Dr. Mason. The 



78 ^If0rt BtttmB nf % %mn0 

latter took them home with him to his 
room, and catching an inspiration simi- 
lar to that of the hymn, he composed a 
tune called "'Olivet,'' to which the 
hymn has been wedded to this day. 

Dr. Mason met the author a few days 
afterward, and said: ''Mr. Palmer, you 
may live many years and do many good 
things, but I think you will be best 
known to posterity as the author of this 
beautiful hymn.'' This prediction has 
long since been fulfilled. The man who 
first out of the fullness of his heart sang 
this sweet song of Calvary has composed 
many tender and beautiful poems and 
discourses, but "his devout mind flow- 
ered out in one matchless lily whose 
rich odors have filled the courts of our 
God with fragrance." On the shelves 
and counters of our booksellers this im- 
mortal composition takes its place, beau- 
tifully bound and illustrated, as one of 



g>I|0rl g^t0rtw of % %mttjg 79 

the "Holiday books/' and is to be 
found side by side with such master- 
pieces as Newman's ''Lead, Kindly 
Light/' Lyte's ''Abide with me/' and 
Keble's "Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour 
dear." With these we well may rank 
Ray Palmer's hymn — 

"My faith looks up to Thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour divine; 
Now hear me while I pray; 
Take all my guilt away; 
Oh, let me from this day 
Be wholly Thine!" 

This is not the only instance on record 
of a man writing many hymns that are 
good and but only one that will live 
long; and the above incident is quite in 
line with what we have so often noticed 
in these brief sketches — that our best 
and finest hymns have been fairly wrung 



80 Bl^avt BtcxxtB 0f tl|^ %mn0 

out of the soul of the composer by some 
great sorrow, grief, or trouble. Remem- 
ber, when you sing this hymn, that Ray 
Palmer was poor, alone in a great city, 
unfriended, naturally timid and reserved, 
not knowing what hardships might be 
before him in the great world, and feeling 
his loneliness and helplessness, turned in 
whole-hearted, trustful faith to God and 
Christ. 



^I]f0rt BtmitB nf % %mttj0 81 



CHAPTER VII 

To the pen of the late Rev. Dr. Henry 
Harbaugh, the president of the Theo- 
logical Seminary of the Reformed Church, 
located at the time at Mercersburg, Pa., 
we are indebted for several most beauti- 
ful and enduring hymns. The first of 
these is — 

"Jesus, to Thy cross I hasten, 

In all weariness my home; 
Let Thy dying love come o'er me. 

Light and covert in the gloom. 
Saviour, hide me, Saviour, hide me, 

Till the hour of gloom is o'er!" 

The hymn comprises three stanzas, 
and appears in many collections anony- 
mously, for it is only of late that the 



authorship has come to Hght. In leaf- 
ing over a book of poems by the author 
of this hymn, entitled, ^'Harbaugh's 
Poems,'' a friend marked its first ap- 
pearance in that collection. 

Dr. Harbaugh died in 1867, while 
president of the Seminary above named. 
He was a diligent student and scholar as 
well as a fruitful writer, especially of 
lyric poetry. He wrote quite a number 
of hymns in addition to the one above 
mentioned, of which, however, none 
seems likely to rival the excellency of the 
following, which has found its way into 
the hymnals of most of the churches, and 
bids fair to be in favor while time shall 
last — 

"Jesus, I live to Thee, 
The loveliest and best. 
My life in Thee, Thy life in me. 
In Thy blest love I rest. 



Jesus, I die to Thee, 

Whenever death shall come. 

To die in Thee is life to me 
In my eternal home. 

Whether to live or die, 

I know not which is best. 
To live in Thee is bliss to me — 

To die is endless rest. 

Living or dying. Lord, 

I ask but to be Thine. 
My life in Thee, Thy life in me, 

Makes heaven forever mine. " 

That is truly a hymn that will Kve. 
Like Ray Palmer's, this hymn breathes 
the spirit of utter and absolute self -con- 
secration to Christ. It is full of ^^sweet- 
ness and light.'' Perhaps the author's 
own triumphant death was the best ex- 
emplification of his hymn. The beloved 
president of the Seminary lay dying in 
the darkened chamber at Mercersburg, 



and anxious and affectionate friends 
moved about with noiseless tread and 
eyes suffused with tears. Could it be 
that he who, as man looked upon it, was 
so much needed, and without whom it 
was feared by many the Church could 
not successfully carry forward its work, 
must be taken away? Just when the 
dying, weary man seemed to be passing 
away, as he lay in a deep and apparently 
unconscious state, some one wishing to 
arouse him that he might speak yet one 
more word to his sorrowing household, 
called him with a loud voice. Opening 
his eyes wearily, as if he had come from 
far away, the dying man said with a 
smile, ^'Oh, why called ye me back from 
the golden gates?" Then he relapsed 
into that deep sleep which knows no 
waking for the believer until he wakes in 
the blessed land beyond. 
The hymn commencing 



^lynrt ^tnrt^B at % %m«0 85 

"Jesus, and shall it ever be 
A mortal man ashamed of Thee ? *' 

apart from the real value of the com- 
position, is remarkable for the fact that 
it was written by a boy only ten years 
of age. The author of it was Joseph 
Grigg. It first appeared in an English 
magazine, and was entitled ^* Shame of 
Jesus conquered by love. By a youth 
of ten years.'' It was, no doubt, or- 
iginally suggested by the shame which 
young people often experience in making 
an open and public confession of Christ's 
name, and in witnessing the same in the 
company of godless companions. This 
feeling of shame of religion is one of the 
devices of the evil one to lead the souls 
of men astray. It is a very common 
obstacle in the way of young believers 
particularly, and in many cases it proves 
almost insuperable. With this terrible 



86 #ty0rt BtamB vi tl|^ %mna 

threat of ''what the world will say/' 
the evil one frightens many poor souls 
away from the open door of mercy. 
Young men are ashamed to confess 
Christ's name lest their godless com- 
panions make sport of them. If these 
lines should chance to fall under the eye 
of any such young people we kindly ask 
them, for their own soul's sake, to read 
this hymn, and to remember that it was 
written by a young boy who was in the 
same case as themselves. It is related 
that a young person who had made a 
profession of religion and was much 
teased and persecuted by godless com- 
panions, stood firm; and on being asked 
by his pastor why he did not give way, 
he said: "Sir, I once heard you say in a 
sermon that if we let the wicked laugh 
us out of heaven into hell, they could 
not laugh us out of hell into heaven 
again. " 



Biijxtt BtatxtB 0f % l^igmm 87 

The author of this hymn was much 
persecuted, for he was compelled to live 
and work in circumstances in which he 
was obliged to associate with profane 
persons to whom all religious belief was 
a standing theme of jest and mockery. 
But the boy clung to Jesus, well content 
not to be ashamed of Jesus, and only 
hoping that Jesus would not be ashamed 
of him. 

"Jesus! and shall it ever be, 
A mortal man ashamed of Thee? 
Ashamed of Thee! whom angels praise, 
Whose glories shine through endless days ? 

Ashamed of Jesus! Sooner far 
Let evening blush to own a star; 
He sheds the beams of light divine 
O'er this benighted soul of mine. 

Ashamed of Jesus! Just as soon 
Let midnight be ashamed of noon; 
'Tis midnight with my soul, till He, 
Bright morning star, bids darkness flee." 



88 #I|0rt BtamB nf % %mttB 



CHAPTER VIII 

Everybody knows the good old mis- 
sionary hymn, '^From Greenland's icy 
mountains/' but not everybody has 
heard the story of its composition. 
The author of it was Reginald Heber, 
D. D., who after the composition of the 
hymn himself became a missionary to 
India, and died Bishop of Calcutta. He 
was one of the most accomplished schol- 
ars whom the University of Oxford ever 
produced. He was born at Malpas, in 
Cheshire, England, in the year 1783. 
At the age of seventeen he was entered 
at Brasenose College, Oxford, where he 
became a distinguished student, carry- 
ing away many of the highest prizes for 
poems and essays. His prize poem on 
Palestine is generally considered the best 




REGINALD HEBER. 



#lj[0rt Btntxi^B nf % %mtt0 89 



ever written at Oxford. His fame rests 
mainly upon his hymns which, as Kterary 
compositions, rank among the best in the 
EngHsh language. From his very earliest 
years he was remarkable for his piety 
and great kindness and affection. So 
great and accurate was his knowledge of 
the Bible that ''when only ifive years old, 
when his father and some friends were 
discussing as to the book of the Bible 
where some particular passage could be 
found, they turned to little Reginald 
for information, and he soon laid finger 
on chapter and verse." As an instance 
of the pious turn of his mind, it is re- 
lated that when very young, hearing the 
conundrum, "Where was Moses when 
the light went out," he solemnly said, 
''On Mount Nebo; for there he died, 
and it may be said that his lamp of life 
went out there. " He was also so benev- 
olent that he would give all that he had 



90 #t|0rt ^t0nj0 of % I|ijmtt0 

to the poor, so that his parents had to 
sew the bank-notes, which they gave 
him for his half-years school money, in 
the lining of his pockets, that he might 
not give all his money away in charity 
on the road to school. In 1807 he was 
admitted to orders, and after sixteen 
years of faithful labor in the ministry in 
England, he went to India as a mission- 
ary in 1823, where he labored for a period 
of three years, with such devotion to 
his work among the heathen that, from 
over exertion in an unfavorable climate, 
he died in an apoplectic fit while in his 
bath, April 13, 1826. 

Heber was the author of many hymns, 
all alike distinguished by finish and 
style, pathos, and soaring aspiration. 
To his poetic genius we are indebted for 
''Lo, He comes, with clouds descending,^' 
*'By cool Siloam's shady rill,'' ''Jesus 
Christ is risen today," ''Holy, holy. 



#I|0rt BtxxtxtB 0f % %mtt0 91 

holy, Lord God Almighty/' ''Thou art 
gone to the grave, but we will not de- 
plore Thee/' and others: among which 
we pause to mention briefly that ever 
delightful Christmas hymn, "'Brightest 
and best of the sons of the morning/' 
In some hymn books this hymn begins 
"Hail the blest morn when the great 
Mediator," but in the greater number 
of the books it stands as above — 

"Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid; 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. 

Cold on His cradle the dew drops are shining. 
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall, 

Angels adore Him, in slumbers reclining. 
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion. 
Odors of Edom and offerings divine. 

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the Ocean, 
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine? 



Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 

Vainly with gifts would His favor secure; 

Richer by far is the heart's adoration, 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor." 

W^hen or why the first stanza of this 
hymn was changed, the writer has been 
unable to discover: but whether sung in 
the old way or the new, it is in every 
regard one of our choicest Christmas 
hymns. 

And now we come to the story of the 
composition of ^'From Greenland's icy 
mountains." For many years before he 
himself went to India, Heber was an 
enthusiast on the subject of missions. 
In 1819, four years before he went out 
amongst the heathen to preach the 
gospel, a letter was sent forth by the 
king, authorizing an offering to be taken 
in every church and chapel in England, 
connected with the Church of England, 
for missions. On the evening of Whit- 



Bl^avt BtttvxsB af % llgmna 93 

Sunday, which was the day appointed 
for this purpose, Heber had engaged to 
dehver the first of a series of evening 
lectures in the church at Wrexham, 
which was in charge of his father-in-law, 
the Rev. Dr. Shipley. On the Saturday 
previous, as they were seated around 
the table at the parsonage. Dr. Shipley 
requested his son-in-law to write some- 
thing for them to sing in the morning, 
suitable to the missionary service. Heber 
at once retired from the little circle, 
and withdrew to a corner of the room. 
After a while Dr. Shipley asked, 
"What have you written.?'' Heber then 
read the first three stanzas of that mag- 
nificent hymn which he had so quickly 
written: 

"From Greenland's icy mountains. 
From India's coral strand. 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 
Roll down their golden sand; 



94 B^ttxt BtixvxtB of % ffymtw 



From many an ancient river, 
From many a palmy plain, 

They call us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain. 

What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile; 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strewn; 
The heathen in his blindness 

Bows down to wood and stone. 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on high — 
Can we to men benighted 

The lamp of life deny? 
Salvation! O Salvation! 

The joyful sound proclaim. 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learned Messiah's name!'* 



i€ 



There, there!'' joyfully and triumph- 



#lj[0rt BtuntB 0f % %mtt0 95 

antly exclaimed Dr. Shipley. **That 
will do— that will do!" 

"'No, no/' said Heber, ''the sense is 
not yet complete." 

Taking the manuscript again in his 
hand and retiring a second time to his 
nook in the corner, in a few moments he 
wrote that magnificent fourth stanza, 

"Waft, waft, ye winds. His story. 

And you, ye waters, roll. 
Till like a sea of glory 

It spreads from pole to pole; 
Till o'er our ransomed nature 

The Lamb for sinners slain. 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign. ** 

The next morning, in the church at 
Wrexham, this great missionary hymn 
was sung for the first time and it was 
not long before it was adopted all over 
the world, and it will never cease to be 
sung so long as there is a single heathen 



96 ^i|0rt ^t0rt^0 of ttff %mtt0 

to be converted. Like many of our 
finest hymns, it was born on the instant, 
coming by a sudden flash-Hke inspiration; 
and the original copy still shows that it 
was so accurately written that the poet 
afterward changed but a single word. 
Let it be remembered, when we sing 
this hymn, that the author of it died a 
missionary among the heathen in India. 



^if0rt BtxtmB 0f % ifgmtt0 97 



CHAPTER IX 

** Just as I am, without One Plea/' 

A faithful pastor of a small flock once 
met one of the young ladies of his con- 
gregation on the street, as she was on 
the way to her dressmaker to have a 
dress made for a ball. Stopping her, 
he frankly asked her mission and she 
frankly told him. "I wish/' said he, 
"you were a Christian woman; that you 
would forsake all these frivolities, and 
learn to live nearer to God. Won't you 
stay away from this ball, if for nothing 
else, because I ask it?" She repHed, 
"I wish you would mind your own 
business, sir. Good day." The young 
lady went to the ball and danced all 
night. She went home, and when her 
head was at rest upon her pillow, con- 



98 Blixivt ^tntxtB nf tl\t %mtts 

science began to do its work. She 
thought how she had insulted her pastor, 
the best friend she had, perhaps, in all 
the world. The torment of conscience 
was kept up for three days until she 
could endure it no longer. Going to her 
pastor's study, she told him how sorry 
she was that she had said words that had 
caused his heart to ache. "I have been 
the most miserable girl in the world for 
the past three days,'' she said, "and now 
I want to become a Christian. I want 
to be saved. Oh! what must I do to be 
saved.?" The old pastor, with his heart 
full of compassion and sympathy and 
love for the contrite spirit before him, 
pointed her to the Lamb of God, and told 
her how she must give herself to God 
just as she was. "What! just as I am, 
and I one of the most sinful creatures in 
the world. 5^ You surely do not mean to 
say that God will accept me just as I 



^Ij0rt BUv\£B 0f % ilamtta 99 

am?" '*I mean just that/' was the 
pastor's reply; "God wants you to come 
to Him just as you are." The young 
lady went home, and retiring to her 
room, knelt beside her bed and prayed 
God to take her just as she was. Reach- 
ing to a chair that stood by the bed, she 
took a piece of paper and a pencil that 
were there, and under these holy influen- 
ces wrote the verses of that hymn so 
dear to the heart of every Christian: 

"Just as I am, without one plea. 
But that Thy blood was shed for me. 
And that Thou bid'st me come to Thee, 
O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, and waiting not 
To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am, though tossed about 
With many a conflict, many a doubt, 



100 Bhiavt Btams nf % %mna 



With fears within and foes without, 
O Lamb of God, I come! 



Just as I am! Thy love unknown 
Has broken every barrier down; 
Now, to be Thine, yea, Thine alone, 
O Lamb of God, I come! 

The lady was Miss Charlotte Elliot. 
The poem was written in 1834. 

The Hymn, ''Stand up, Stand up for 

Jesus. '' 

It is to be regretted that we know so 
little of the circumstances under which 
many of our hymns were written. In 
many instances, unfortunately, all that 
can be ascertained is the author's name 
and the date of the composition. It 
would certainly add much to our interest 
in and our intelligent use of very many 
of the hymns if there had been preserved 



Blj[Xitt #t0rtw 0f % %mtti3 101 

for us some particular account of the con- 
ditions and circumstances under which 
they were first given to the Church. 

We are thankful that it has happened 
differently with the hymn we are pres- 
ently considering — '* Stand up, stand up 
for Jesus/' It was written in the year 
1858, by the Rev. George Dufiield, Jr., 
a Presbyterian minister in Philadelphia; 
and we are fortunate in having preserved 
to us a well authenticated account of the 
origin of this deservedly popular hymn, 
written for ^^The Sunday School Times,'' 
some years ago, by the Rev. Samuel 
Duffield, the son of the composer. The 
article says : 

"The hymn, 'Stand up, stand up for 
Jesus,' has had such a history, and has 
been so honored of the Lord in the work 
of the Church, that these facts absolve 
me from any feeling of delicacy in offer- 
ing, for the first time, its complete 



history. Its author, my dear and hon- 
ored father, could scarcely do more than 
give the mere unadorned facts. I think 
it is possible for me, in these columns, to 
correct certain errors, and to add certain 
elements of interest to the account. 
And when I remember that the same 
hand now pens these lines which once 
copied that hymn for the printer, I feel 
glad that it is permitted to me to tell 
the story of the hymn. 

''In the great revival of 1857-58, 
Jayne's Hall, on Chestnut street, Philadel- 
phia, was the largest room which could be 
procured for the noon prayer-meeting. 
In this some three thousand persons 
were used to assemble, and there, one 
day, I saw a distant, slight figure, rise, 
and heard for a few moments a silvery 
and resonant voice. It struck upon my 
ear with a peculiar power, and I have 
never forgotten the person nor the tone. 



Blfixxt ^0m0 0f % %mttfl 103 

That was the first and the only time 
that I saw or heard Dudley Atkins 
Tyng, rector of the Church of the Epiph- 
any, Philadelphia. It was only a few 
weeks, indeed as I recall it, it was only 
but a few days after this, that we had 
the news of his accident. It was in 
1858. He had left his study, wearing 
his study-gown, of silk and very strong, 
and had gone to the farm, where a mule 
was at work in a * horse-power' which 
drove a corn-sheller. Every Pennsyl- 
vanian of those days knows the great 
cogged wheels at the side of such a 
machine, and the danger of being caught 
in them. But Dudley Tyng, with 
a natural and self-forgetful kindness, 
reached over to pat the mule, and the 
cogs dragged his sleeve, and then his 
arm, into them. It was all over in a 
flash . . . The injury (as I have always 
understood) was met by amputation; 



104 Bl^titt BtrxvxiB 0f % ^gmtta 



then by another, then by a third at the 
shoulder, but all to no effect. The sin- 
ews and muscles had been too deeply 
involved, and the man died. He was a 
member of the Young Men's Christian 
Association, of which Mr. George H. 
Stuart was then president. So also was 
I a member, with other boys and lads 
of my age. To us he sent the stirring 
message: 'Tell them to stand up for 
Jesus.' 

^' I need not say how wide was the lam- 
entation, nor how his sermon on Exodus 
10: 11 — "'Go now, ye that are men, and 
serve the Lord,'' preached to a great 
audience on the Sunday before his death, 
was recalled by many. On the Sunday 
succeeding his death, my father, the 
Rev. George Duffield, Jr., who was 
the pastor of the Central Presbyterian 
Church, Northern Liberties, at Fourth 
and Coates streets, and who had been a 



^Ij[0rt BtamB xtf % Ifgrntta 105 

close and warm friend of Mr. Tyng, 
preached a sermon from the text, Ephesi- 
ans 6: 14 — ^' Stand, therefore, having 
your loins girt about with truth, and 
having on the breastplate of righteous- 
ness/' At its conclusion he read the 
hymn, which he had written by way of 
peroration. Mr. Benedict D. Stewart, 
at that time superintendent of the Sun- 
day School, requested a copy for publi- 
cation. This I made, by my father's 
direction, in a rude, boyish, scrawl, and 
carried it to the printing-oflSce of a Mr. 
Thompson, who was a member of the 
Coates street church, and whose place 
of business was, I think, in the historic 
building on the corner of Sixth and 
Market streets. There were a number 
of the leaflets printed. I remember 
just how they looked and I would give 
a good deal to get one now as my own. 
"The hymn had six stanzas. It was 



106 Bl\titt BtBvuB 0f % %mna 

first copied into the columns of a Baptist 
paper. Shortly afterward it found its 
way into the hymnal of the Presbyterian 
Church and gradually into the hymnals 
of all the churches. It has been trans- 
lated into several other languages, in- 
cluding the Latin. The latest render- 
ing now lies before me, written with a 
brush, Chinese characters. It is a ver- 
sion of three stanzas by the Rev. W. J. 
McKee, of Ning-po. 

*^My father went to the barn-floor 
shortly after the accident, saw the place 
and heard the story from an eye-witness. 
It was on his return that he composed 
the hymn.^' 



Bl^xxtt BtamB 0f % %mttj0 107 



CHAPTER X 

It is not often that a good and lasting 
hymn is written with intention and de- 
sign. Very generally the best hymns 
have come, as it were, suddenly and un- 
accountably, as if by a divine inspira- 
tion, and very often their authors neither 
anticipated nor could account for their 
subsequent popularity. To this general 
rule, however, there have been some 
notable and conspicuous exceptions. The 
grand old missionary hymn, ''From 
Greenland's icy mountains,'' for in- 
stance, was, as we have seen, written by 
request. And the same is true also 
of that stirring Processional hymn, 
' 'Onward, Christian Soldiers. " This, 
strange as it may seem, was written to 
order. Its author, the Rev. S. Baring 



108 Bi^ntt S^tamB ixf tl|^ %mns 

Gould, an English clergyman, himself 
tells us that ''It was written in very 
simple fashion, and without a thought 
of pubheation. Whit-Monday being a 
great day in Yorkshire for school festivi- 
ties, it was arranged, on the anniversary 
of 1865, that our school should unite 
with that of a neighboring village, and 
wishing them to sing as they marched 
along, I vainly tried to find something 
suitable for the purpose. At length I 
resolved to write something myself, 
the result being 'Onward, Christian 
Soldiers/ It was hurriedly composed 
and had some faulty rhymes, and cer- 
tainly nothing has so much surprised 
me as its popularity/' 

There is a hymn, or Christian song, 
entitled "Shining Shore," which, though 
falling somewhat short of any high hym- 
nological standard, has yet been greatly 



Bilfxtt ^tavxtB nf % ^i^mna 109 

blessed in the experience of God's people 
for many years past — 

"My days are gliding swiftly by, 

And I, a pilgrim stranger, 
Would not detain them as they fly, 

Those hours of toil and danger. 
For, Oh, we stand on Jordan's strand. 

Our friends are passing over. 
And just before the shining shore 

We may almost discover. " 

Perhaps the music to which these 
words were set and have always since 
been sung have had quite as much to do 
with the popularity of the song as the 
words themselves. 

As for the words — they were written 
by David Nelson, born in Tennessee, 
1793; a physician, an army surgeon in 
the war of 1812; professed religion, be- 
came an infidel; repented of his infidelity 
and became a Christian again; became a 
minister; preached in Tennessee and 



110 ^l|[0rt BttimB 0f % %mttH 

Kentucky; founded Marion College in 
Missouri, 1830, of which he was the 
president. He strongly favored emanci- 
pation, and that brought him into so 
much trouble that he removed to Illi- 
nois, where he died 1844. 

He had a charming voice, it is said, 
and used it with great effect, thus an- 
ticipating the singing evangelist of a 
later day. He was so much interested 
in the colonization of the negro that he 
frequently got into trouble. On one oc- 
casion, at the close of the meeting, he 
asked all who wished to remain so to do 
and discuss the negro problem of his day 
with him. Quite a number tarried and 
disorder followed, as a matter of course. 
How could it be otherwise in those days 
of hot blood .^ Nelson was driven from 
his home, he had to flee for his life. 
After long wandering, he reached the 
Mississippi river and concealed himself 



#If0rt Btx^txtB 0f % S|gmtt0 111 

in the shrubbery on its banks, at a point 
where passengers were conveyed to the 
opposite shore. As he lay there with 
hungry eyes watching them so easily 
passing over to the landing which he 
could ''almost discover/' he took out 
an envelope from his pocket and there 
wrote this song of the Christian's long- 
ing for a safe and blessed passage to the 
^'Shining Shore/' 

But the words without the music 
would probably have been lost or over- 
looked. However, a directing provi- 
dence took care that they should be 
wedded to suitable strains of stirring and 
inspiring song. They were like a seed 
thrown broadcast and at hazard, which, 
finding a favorable soil, springs up and 
grows into a noble tree. 

It is queer how such things come 
about. Massachusetts is a good way 
from Missouri, but one day, George F. 



112 Bl^avt BtttvxtB 0f tiff %mttJB 

Root, a musical composer, was at the 
home of his parents at Willow Farm in 
that New England state, for there the 
scattered children gathered every sum- 
mer from far and wide. 

"I was at some work at some songs, 
one morning," the composer afterward 
said, ''when my mother, passing through 
the room where I was at work, laid a 
slip from a religious paper before me, 
saying, 'George, I think that would be 
good for music/ As I looked at the 
poem beginning, 'My days are gliding 
swiftly by,' a simple melody sang itself 
into my mind. I jotted it down and 
went on with my work. Later when I 
took it up to harmonize it, the tune 
seemed so commonplace that I hesitated, 
but finally deciding that it might be use- 
ful to somebody, I completed it. When 
in after years it was sung in all the 
churches and Sunday Schools in the land. 



Original Score of Hymn by Lewis H. Redner 




kA4^ ^6Cb Or<j ^iCUjl, A<^ ^ 

Dr. Philips Brooks wrote the famous hymn, ''O, Little Town of 
Bethlehem," and at his request Mr. Redner set it to music. 



#ij0rt BtxitxtB 0f % %mttj9 113 

and in every tongue where missions were 
established, thus demonstrating that it 
had the mysterious thing called vitality, 
I tried to see why it should be so, but 
in vain." 

Of course; for man seeth not as God 
seeth. 

Speaking, now, of the singular provi- 
dence of God, who thus caused an in- 
spiration of a sacred song to be given in 
one part of the world and its melody in 
another part far away, we recall what we 
have read about that favorite Christmas 
hymn — 

"O little town of Bethlehem! 

How still we see thee lie: 
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 

The silent stars go by; 
Yet in thy dark streets shineth 

The everlasting Light; 
The hopes and fears of all the years 

Are met in thee tonight. '* 



114 ^Ijort ^atxsB of % %mtta 

As is well known, it was written by 
Phillips Brooks, at that time the Rector 
of Holy Trinity Church, Philadelphia. 
Dr. Brooks received his inspiration for 
this Christmas carol one evening in 
Christmas week in 1865. He was travel- 
ing in the Holy Land and on this evening 
was riding on the historic plain of 
Bethlehem from which the shepherds 
beheld the star. The inspiration was 
there given, although the words were 
not written until a year later. The cir- 
cumstances in which they were set to 
music are related by Mr. L. H. Redner, 
who at the time was the organist of 
Holy Trinity, the superintendent of the 
Sunday School, and a teacher of one of 
the classes. 

^^As Christmas of 1868 approached,'' 
Mr. Redner said, ''Mr. Brooks told me 
that he had written a simple Kttle carol 
for the Christmas Sunday School service, 



#I|0rt Sl0rtJ^0 of % I|gmtt0 115 

and he asked me to write the tune to it. 
The simple music was written in great 
haste and under great pressure. We 
were to practice it on the following 
Sunday. Mr. Brooks came to me on 
Friday and said, 'Redner, have you 
ground out that music yet to 'O little 
town of Bethlehem?' I replied that I 
had not, but that he should have it by 
Sunday. On the Saturday night pre- 
vious my brain was all confused about 
the tune. I thought more about the 
Sunday School lesson than I did about 
the music. But I was roused from 
sleep late in the night hearing an angel- 
strain whispering in my ear and seizing 
a piece of music-paper, I jotted down 
the treble of the tune as we now have it, 
and on Sunday morning, before going to 
church, I filled in the harmony. Neither 
Mr. Brooks nor I thought the carol or 



116 #tif0rt BttatiiB 0f % %mttjB 

the music to it would live beyond the 
Christmas of 1868. 

''My recollection is that Richard Mc- 
Cauley, who then had a book store on 
Chestnut street, west of Thirteenth, 
printed it on leaflets for sale. The Rev. 
Dr. Huntington, the Rector of All 
Saints Church, Worcester, Mass., asked 
permission to print it in his Sunday 
School hymn and tune book, entitled 
''The Church Porch,'' and it was he 
who christened the music, "Saint Louis.'' 



g^ljfort BtarxtB of % Sfamnsi 117 



CHAPTER XI 

What strange contradictions, what 
veritable ironies there are in this myste- 
rious Hfe of ours. Here is the hymn or 
song — call it what you please — ^'Home, 
Sweet Home." The author was John 
Howard Payne, an American dramatist 
and actor, born in New York, 1792, died 
at Tunis, Africa, 1852. He had no 
home of his own and died in a foreign 
land, being U. S. Consul to Tunis. 
There his body was buried and for 
many long years lay in a grave unmarked 
by a tombstone. ^^How often,'' said he, 
"have I been in the heart of Paris, Ber- 
lin or London or some other city, and 
heard persons playing or singing *Home, 
Sweet Home,' without a shilling to buy 
the next meal or a place to lay my head. 



118 ^Ij0rt ^t0m0 0f tl|^ %mnB 

The world has sung my song till every 
heart is familiar with its melody, yet I 
have been a poor wanderer from my 
boyhood. My country has turned me 
from office, and in old age I have to sub- 
mit to humiliation for my daily bread/' 
And yet, before he died he had one high 
and memorable tribute paid to him, as 
the following will show: 

The First Singing of ''Home, Sweet 

Home." 

Perhaps the most thrilling quarter of 
an hour of John Howard Payne's life was 
that when Jenny Lind sang ''Home, 
Sweet Home" to him. The occasion 
was the Jenny Lind concert in Washing- 
ton, the night of December 17, 1850. 
The assembly was, perhaps, the most dis- 
tinguished ever seen in this country. 
The immense National Hall, hastily 
constructed for the occasion on the 



Bl^ntt ^t0nf0 0f % %mn0 119 

ruins of the burned National Theatre, 
was filled to overflowing. Among the 
notables present and occupying front 
seats were President Fillmore, Daniel 
Webster, Henry Clay, General Scott 
and John Howard Payne. 

Jenny Lind opened with the ^Xasta 
Diva," and followed with the "Flute 
Song" (in which her voice contested 
rivalry for purity and sweetness with a 
flute in the duet), then the famous 
"'Bird Song" and next on her programme 
the "Greeting to America." All the 
selections were applauded apparently to 
the full capacity of an enthusiastic audi- 
ence and Mr. Webster, who was in his 
most genial after-dinner mood, empha- 
sized the plaudit by rising from his seat 
and making Jenny a profound bow, as if 
responding for the country to her 
"Greeting." But when the "Swedish 
Nightingale" answered the encore by 



turning in the direction of John Howard 
Payne and giving ''Home, Sweet Home/' 
with all the wonderful tenderness, purity 
and simplicity fitting both the words 
and the air of the immortal song, the 
diflference was at once seen between the 
mechanical applause called out by a 
display of fine vocalization and that 
elicited by the ''touch of nature that 
makes the whole w^orld kin/' Before 
the first line of the song was completed, 
the audience was fairly off its feet and 
could scarcely wait for a pause to give 
expression to its enthusiasm. People 
ordinarily of the undemonstrative sort 
clapped, stamped and shouted as if they 
were mad, and it seemed as if there would 
be no end to the uproar. Meantime all 
eyes were turned upon Payne, a small- 
sized, elegantly-molded, gray-haired gen- 
tleman, who blushed violently at finding 
himself the center of so many glances. 



§I|0rt #tam0 0f % %mtt0 121 



CHAPTER XII 

Something about ''The Star Spangled 
Banner/' 

Inquiries having been made in the 
columns of the Philadelphia "'Evening 
Bulletin/' from which the following is 
quoted, Katherine Durang Fisher says: 

"I would like to tell the story as my 
dear father, the late Charles Durang, 
told my sisters and myself. He and 
his brother, Ferdinand Durang, both 
well-known actors in their day, at the 
time of the attack of Fort McHenry 
were serving a ten day engagement there. 
That was on September 14, 1814, and 
both were then about twenty years old. 
When the poet, Francis Scott Key, came 
in, he held a piece of paper in his hand 
and calling to my father and uncle to 



listen, he read the original poem of 'The 
Star Spangled Banner' to them. My 
father and uncle were so much interested 
that they took the verses and hummed 
several airs to them, in their endeavor to 
adapt the words to music. Then my 
uncle, Ferdinand, suddenly exclaimed, 
'I have it!' and hummed the words to 
the music of 'Anacreon in Heaven,' a 
well-known hymn that was then widely 
sung. Then the brothers Durang mounted 
a chair in Fort McHenry and sang the 
song until the whole garrison .joined in. 
Later they sang the anthem again in the 
old Holliday Street Theatre and the 
whole audience, in which was Francis 
Scott Key, also sang with the actors.'' 



#If0rt ^tamfi 0f % %mtt0 123 



CHAPTER XII 

'' Closing Hymns. " 

The hymns which we sing in the even- 
ing, particularly those with which the 
evening service of the Lord's day is con- 
cluded, seem always to possess a peculiar 
charm and power. And this seems to 
be the case because, to every thought- 
ful mind and reverent heart, the close of 
the day is, perhaps, more than any 
other time, the natural hour for calm 
thought and reverent devotion. Even- 
ing is the season of rest, of reflection, 
of quiet meditation. Then the day's 
work is done; its harrowing cares are 
over. Darkness comes over the face of 
the earth, the stars come out in the sky 
and both mind and heart, as by an ir- 
resistible impulse, run up toward God, 



124 g>lj0rt Bt0vxiB of % ^gmtw 

the creator of all, while feelings of 
gratitude for past mercies possess the 
soul, and thoughts come into the mind 
of the approach of that night which, 
sooner or later, must envelope us all in 
its impenetrable gloom and that great 
and endless day of God which shall 
know no setting sun. 

The evening of the Lord's day is, in 
a double sense, a time well suited for de- 
votional purposes and the hymns which 
we then sing should be, as we believe 
they for the most part are, sung heartily. 
The evening hymns we are accustomed 
to sing in church — how sweet they are! 
How they seem to give expression to 
our otherwise pent-up and voiceless feel- 
ings of adoration and praise to our 
Heavenly Father! Then, if at any time 
during the Lord's day, we should join 
heartily, earnestly and prayerfully in the 
sacred songs of Zion. 



BlfViVt ^tctitB of % %mtt0 125 

Have you never noticed what a power 
the last hymn of a worshipping congre- 
gation has over both mind and heart? 
If it be an appropriate evening hymn, 
and is sung to some well-known melody — 
how it lingers about one for days after- 
ward! You find yourself humming it, 
perhaps audibly, perhaps only inwardly, 
^'making melody in your heart unto the 
Lord,'' while you are walking home 
from church. If you live in the country 
and have several miles to drive home in 
your carriage, as you roll along under 
the light of the full moon or through the 
gloomy forest, you find yourself or your 
wife or children breaking out involun- 
tarily in the strains still floating in your 
mind and memory, as if wafted from God's 
assembled people. You will find that 
same parting song of Zion following you 
during the week with its sacred melody, 
as a breath from heaven. The wife at 



126 #t|0rt BtamB nf % %m«0 

her work in the house hums it, the 
husband whistles it as he shoves his 
plane or follows his plow, while, when 
silent, the sacred echo of the song is 
heard far back in the mind or deep down 
in the heart. 

Whoever writes a good evening hymn 
confers a great blessing on God's people 
throughout the world. Difficult as is 
the composition of a true hymn of any 
kind, the preparation of a good closing, 
evening hymn seems to be particularly 
a matter of rare accomplishment. We 
have, as you may have perchance al- 
ready observed, very few good hymns 
suitable to the close of the Lord's day, 
as will be found on consulting any hymn 
book. We propose to call attention to 
a few of the best. 

We have already noticed the classic 
composition — ''Abide with me: fast 
falls the eventide'' — which is indeed an 



evensong of most surpassing beauty. 
Then, there is the good old hymn, ''I 
love to steal a while away/' which has 
been in use among Christian people of 
all denominations for nearly a century. 
Of this hymn it is related that it was 
written in answer to the fault-finding of 
a meddlesome gossip. It was written 
by Mrs. Phoebe H. Brown, who lived 
near the village of Ellington in Connec- 
ticut, and it was first published in the 
year 1824. Mrs. Brown was, at the 
time of the composition of this hymn, 
a care-worn mother of a large family of 
children. It was her custom every 
evening, when the weather permitted, 
to set her house in order about the hour 
of sunset, and, leaving the children alone 
at home, to go out by a well worn path 
to a quiet and secluded spot by a neigh- 
boring mountain stream and there hold 
sweet communion with God beneath 



the overarching trees. There she was 
wont to pour forth her soul in suppKca- 
tion for her children, herself and her 
friends; to tell over her sorrows and 
trials, and seek grace and strength suf- 
ficient unto her need. One summer 
evening on her return home from her 
leafy closet, she learned that a neighbor 
woman, a great gossip, had been for 
some time watching her and had been 
sharply criticising her apparent neglect 
of her family. Deeply pained at this, 
she sat down and wrote an apology for 
her conduct, in the form of a poem which 
was soon adopted as a hymn: 

"I love to steal a while away 
From every cumb'ring care. 
And spend the hours of setting day 
In humble, grateful prayer. 

I love in solitude to shed 
The penitential tear, 



^Ij0rt Btaxxta nf % %mt» 129 



And all His promises to plead. 
Where none but God can hear. 

I love to think on mercies past, 
And future good implore. 

And all my cares and sorrows cast 
On Him whom I adore. 



Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er. 

May its departing ray 
Be calm as this impressive hour. 

And lead to endless day. " 

This she entitled ''An apology for my 
twilight rambles/' and addressed it to 
her lady critic, who, let us hope, was 
profited as well as reproved. One of 
the little ones for whom this Christian 
mother prayed in her leafy seclusion by 
the brook-side was the Rev. Samuel R. 
Brown, D. D., who was for many years 
an efficient missionary in Japan. It 
may also be interesting to know that the 



130 Blptt ^t0mB 0f % %mtt0 

author of this hymn had been in early- 
youth a servant girl; her life, from nine 
to eighteen being spent in poverty and 
slavish drudgery. She never went to 
school, seldom got to church and learned 
to write after she was married. She 
was one of the many persons whose 
lives have so forcibly illustrated the 
truth that it often pleases God to use 
the humblest instruments to accomplish 
His purposes, and that '' Out of the mouth 
of babes and sucklings He has perfected 
praise." 

In very striking contrast with the 
lowly origin of the above hymn, we may 
mention that masterpiece of evensong, 
^^Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour dear.'' 
Scarcely ever can one join with God's 
people in the use of this hymn without 
feeling himself brought into close fellow- 
ship with the most gentle and loving 
spirit of its renowned author, as well as 



g>lj[0rt #t0m0 0f % ^Vimm 131 



being lifted up into an atmosphere of 
sweetest communion with our blessed 
Lord and Saviour. There is something 
so exquisitely tender in this sacred song 
— it brings Christ so near — that we feel 
quite certain, even before we know any- 
thing of its author, that it must have 
been written by a man not only of the 
finest scholarship, but also of the deep- 
est piety. In this our natural expecta- 
tion we are not disappointed. The 
author of this hymn, the Rev. John 
Keble, was indeed a man of the high- 
est scholarly attainments, ennobled and 
purified by the power of Christian faith 
to a rare degree. If ever ''sweetness 
and light'' were harmoniously blended 
in the character and life of any man in 
this poor world of ours, John Keble was 
that man. In the absence of all in- 
formation as to the immediate circum- 
stances which gave rise to the hymn we 
have in hand, it will be at least interest- 



132 01jnrt ^tnma nf % ffgrntta 

ing to our readers to know something of 
its author. 

John Keble was born on St. Mark's 
day, April 25, 1792, at Fairford, Glou- 
cestershire, England. His father was 
rector of the church in this village dur- 
ing a period of fifty years. Himself a 
good scholar, the elder Keble did not 
send his son away to school while very 
young, but conducted his early educa- 
tion himself, and he did his work so well 
that his son John was elected a scholar 
in Corpus Christi College, Oxford, at the 
unusually early age of fifteen. He ob- 
tained a fellowship in Oriel College in his 
nineteenth year, and the year previous 
to this he received double first class 
honors, a distinction which had been ob- 
tained only once before in the history of 
the university, and then by Sir Robert 
Peel. He also gained the university 
prizes, and "achieved the highest honors 
of the university at an age when others 



Biintt #t0ma of % %mtt0 133 

were frequently but on the threshold/' 
During his days at Oriel College he 
had for his fellow students some whose 
names became subsequently widely known 
throughout all Christendom; for the 
college, at the time when Keble entered 
it, was the center of all the finest 
ability in Oxford. Sir John Taylor 
Coleridge had been his fellow-scholar 
at Corpus Christi and at Oriel he was 
surrounded with such men as Copleston, 
Davison, Whateley, Arnold (of Rugby 
fame), Pusey and Newman. Not only 
in point of scholarship was he disting- 
uished amongst men such as these — *^he 
was more remarkable for the rare beauty 
of his character than even for his aca- 
demic distinctions.'' Great purity of 
spirit, sweetness of disposition, simpli- 
city, humility, characterized him through- 
out his college days and ever afterward. 
When he entered on the pastoral work 



134 #tj0rl BtVitxtB 0f % %mtt0 

he was renowned for his great kindness 
to the poor and for the unwearied in- 
terest he took in the sick and unfortunate. 
Late at night he would be seen, lantern 
in hand, on his way to or from the home 
of some poor, sick or sorrowing cottager. 
There was in him not only great culture 
of the mind, great illumination of the 
intellect, — but also great culture of the 
moral nature; not only ''light," but also 
"sweetness,'' without which all intel- 
lectual light is, after all, only darkness 
indeed. One feels this to a remarkable 
degree in all of his writings. Whatever 
may be said of his theological opinions, 
there can be no doubt as to the great 
piety of the man. His " Christian 
Year,'' a volume of sacred song which 
will be found in nearly every cultured 
home, has had probably a wider circula- 
tion than any other book of the last 
century. Between 1827 and 1872 one 



Bl^tttt #t0rt^0 xrf % ilgmtiH 135 

hundred and fifty editions were printed. 
In all the sacred songs in this volume, 
one feels the excellence to be this same 
exquisite gentleness of touch, this same 
deep, tender, saintly sweetness which so 
attracted to him all with whom he came 
in contact while he was yet alive. ''The 
real power of 'The Christian Year' lies 
in this — that it brings home to the 
reader as few poetic works have ever 
done, a heart of rare and saintly beauty. 
We may well believe that ages must 
elapse ere another such character shall 
again concur with a poetic gift and 
power of expression which, if not of the 
highest, are yet of a very high order.'' 
All this the reader feels as he reads 
this beautiful hymn. He feels that he 
is here very close to the heart of a man 
whose walk was close with God. Un- 
bounded trustfulness in Christ — "the 
perfect love which casteth out fear" — 



136 g^lj0rt BtavxtB nf % %mtta 

are felt to thrill the soul as the congre- 
gation sings, ere it goes down from the 
house of God at the eventide, while the 
darkness of night is gathering around, 

*'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear. 
It is not night if Thou be near; 
O may no earth-born cloud arise 

To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes. 

When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
My wearied eyelids gently steep, 

Be my last thoughts how sweet to rest 
Forever on my Saviour's breast. 

Abide with me from morn to eve. 
For without Thee I cannot live; 

Abide with me when night is nigh, 
For without Thee I dare not die. '* 



^Jfort Btatxis of % I|gmtt0 137 



CHAPTER XIV 

We come now, finally, to the chief of 
all closing hymns, — the good old ''Long 
Meter'' doxology, ''Praise God from 
whom all blessings flow. '' For more than 
two hundred years this single stanza 
has probably been sung oftener and by 
more people than any other composition 
with which we are acquainted. It is 
the chief of all the doxologies, and it is 
not likely that it will soon be outworn, 
or superseded by any other. It never 
grows old. It never wearies. It is per- 
ennially fresh and sweet. It is very in- 
timately associated with the most sa- 
cred scenes and hallowed memories of 
the past. And it bids fair to be the 
favorite closing hymn for all of God's 
people to the end of time. Did you 



138 i>i|0rt BtttxxtB 0f % %mtt0 

ever stop to consider who wrote this 
dear old doxology, or to inquire how 
long it has been in use? 

It was written by Thomas Ken, a 
Bishop of the English Church, about the 
year 1697, that is more than two hundred 
years ago. Now, if you ask who Thomas 
Ken was, then let me ask you, do you 
not remember having read in Macaulay's 
History of England about seven English 
Bishops who were once imprisoned in the 
Tower of London and afterward brought 
to trial for treason, because they had 
refused to read in their several churches 
the famous Declaration of Indulgence 
to Roman Catholics, w^hich King James 
II had published? These seven men 
were — the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
Lloyd, Turner, Lake, Ken, White and 
Trelawney. They refused to read the 
King's declaration, not only because 
they were opposed to Roman Catholicism, 




i'^€.^\ 



THOMAS KEN. 



^t|0rt BtxtntB ttf % %mtt0 139 

but especially because they felt that the 
King, by his arbitrary action, was com- 
promising the spiritual freedom of the 
Church. After a long consultation they 
drew up a paper in which, with every as- 
surance of loyalty, they ventured polite- 
ly to state their reasons for declining to 
read the Declaration. This paper they 
presented to the king on their knees. 
On reading it King James flew into a 
terrible rage, called them rebels, and 
eventually ordered them to the Tower, 
there to await their trial for treason. 
The whole city of London was aroused 
in behalf of the Bishops, who were re- 
garded as martyrs for the common 
cause. Followed by an immense crowd 
of people who cheered loudly and re- 
peatedly cried, "God bless you!" they 
were with difficulty conducted to the 
Tower, where, before the gates closed 
upon them, the very guards bared their 
heads and craved their benediction and 



140 ^lynrt Status of % %mna 

blessing. You may remember also how, 
subsequently, they were brought to 
trial and acquitted and how wild all the 
country was over the good news. 

Now, one of these was Thomas Ken, 
at that time the Bishop of Bath and 
Wells, and we have mentioned the above 
circumstance partly in order to locate 
the author of our good doxology his- 
torically and partly to show what kind 
of man he was. That he was a man 
having in him the stuff of which martyrs 
are made is evident not only from the 
above narrated facts, but also from what 
is elsewhere related as belonging to his 
early history. In 1679 he had been ap- 
pointed chaplain to the Princess Mary, 
the wife of William of Orange, and for a 
short time lived in Holland. In 1680 
he returned to England and was made 
chaplain to the King, Charles II. Hav- 
ing his residence at Winchester, in 1683 



B^tJtxt ^tnvuB 0f % %mn0 141 

the King and his court of fine people of 
questionable morals once paid a visit to 
Ken, and it had been arranged that his 
house should be the abode of the famous 
Nell Gwynn, the King's favorite. But 
Ken at once objected to this arrange- 
ment, refused admittance to her and 
compelled her to look for lodgings else- 
where. One would naturally think that 
such an act would have been visited by 
the king's certain and severe displeasure, 
as no doubt Ken expected it would; but 
strange to say, it indirectly led to his 
promotion to the oJSice of a Bishop. 
For, only the next year after the above 
occurrence, when there fell a vacancy 
in the see of Bath and Wells, and differ- 
ent names had been proposed for the 
place, King Charles said one day, ''Where 
is the good little man that refused his 
lodging to poor Nell .5^" and resolved 



142 ^l|0rt BtantB uf % 



that he and no other should be Bishop 
of Bath and Wells. 

I have his picture before me as I 
write — a smooth shaven face it is, high 
forehead, strong chin, well-developed 
nose and a very pleasant expression in 
general. One only wonders why he 
never married. But he was a bachelor, 
— traveled considerably and always 
carried his shroud in his valise with 
him wherever he went, and whenever he 
took seriously sick, he at once put it 
on. This may well illustrate that part 
of his celebrated evening hymn, where 
it says: 

"Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed. '* 

He is celebrated as one of the '* non-jur- 
ing bishops'' who refused to take a new 
oath when William of Orange came in — 
an act which cost him his bishopric and 



^Ifnrt ^t0n^0 nf % ^ttttts 143 

led to his retirement, in which the rest 
of his days were spent. 

But, good Bishop Ken will be best re- 
membered to the end of all time, not 
as one of the seven bishops once im- 
prisoned in London Tower, nor as a 
'* non-juror,'' nor as a chaplain of King 
Charles II., but as the author of the 
noble song of praise to the King of 
Kings and Lord of Lords, ''Praise God 
from whom all blessings flow." As one 
of the fathers of modern English hym- 
nology he has always held high rank. 
Scarcely even Keble himself, though 
possessed of much rarer poetic gifts, 
surpassed him in his own sphere. He 
wrote a volume of prayers for the use of 
the scholars of Winchester College about 
the year 1674. To this volume were 
added three hymns of his composition — 
one for the morning, one for the even- 
ing and one for midnight. Of these, the 



144 ^Ijort ^tVitxtB of % %mttja 

first two are household words where- 
ever the EngHsh tongue is spoken. The 
morning hymn is famihar to all: 

"Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run; 
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice.'* 

The evening hymn is equally well known: 

"All praise to Thee, my God, this night, 
For all the blessings of the light; 
Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings, 
Beneath Thine own almighty wings. 

Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
The ills which I this day have done; 
That with the world, myself, and Thee, 
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 

Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed; 
To die, that this vile body may 
Rise glorious at the awful day. 



Bl^att S^txtmB 0f % %mtt)0i 145 



Oh, when shall I, in endless day. 
Forever chase dark sleep away; 
And praise with the angelic choir 
Incessant sing, and never tire?" 

This is indeed a very beautiful hymn, 
and one endeared to us all by long use; 
but as it w^as originally written, when 
composed for the boys at Winchester 
school, it contained just one more stanza 
— and this last stanza was our long- 
meter doxology, "Praise God from whom 
all blessings flow.'' This last verse, in 
course of time, became separated from 
the rest of Ken's evening hymn and was 
assigned to service as the leading dox- 
ology in all churches the world over. 
If Thomas Ken had never been chaplain 
to the King, a bishop and a non-juror, 
and had done nothing more in all his 
life, save only the composition of this 



146 ^lj[0rt BtxtmB ttf tlit %mtt0 

last verse of his evening hymn, his Hfe, 
even so, would have been well spent and 
a lasting source of blessing to all the 
world. Pray, do not forget good Bishop 
Ken when you sing 

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
Praise Him all creatures here below; 
Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Host — 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." 



^Ijurt §'tarxt& at % %m«a 147 



CHAPTER XV 

"O Mother dear, Jerusalem, 
When shall I come to Thee? 
When shall my sorrows have an end? 
Thy joys when shall I see?" 

In nearly every collection this hymn, 
which in varied form has come down to 
us from the earliest period of the Church, 
will be found to have a well established 
place. Ordinarily its authorship has 
been attributed to David Dickson, who 
was a Scotch Presbyterian minister, born 
at Glasgow, 1583, became a Professor of 
Divinity at Glasgow 1640, and later in 
the University of Edinburgh. He was 
deprived of his oflfice at the Restoration 
for refusing the Oath of Supremacy, and 
died 1663. 

In the opinion of scholars, however, 



148 B^nxt BUmB of t\\t Ifgmna 

Dickson was not the author of this 
beautiful hymn, but rather its very ex- 
cellent translator. The hymn comes 
from a very early period, just how early 
no one can tell; for, from the day when 
St. John on Patmos beheld ''The Holy 
City, new Jerusalem, coming down from 
God out of Heaven," the blessed vision 
of the Heavenlv Citv continued ever 
present to the faith and hope of the 
Church. In the form in which we have 
this hymn in our collections, it may be 
well to note, it is but a very small por- 
tion of a much more lengthy composition, 
well known in the Middle Ages in the 
Latin form. And it seems probable 
that, in the form in which it was then 
known, ''it had received contributions 
from various hands, additions which 
were mostly translations from the 
Fathers or from Mediaeval Latin hymns, 
having been made by one author or 



#lj[0rt BtVimB 0f % %mtt0 149 



another at various times.'' The sim- 
ilarity of both sentiment and expression 
between certain parts of the hymns and 
the writings of the Fathers, especially 
St. Augustine and St. Gregory, would 
seem to warrant the belief that ''David 
Dickson only put into shape, and polished 
a little, the work of his devout predeces- 
sors." The hymn is, therefore, a growth, 
and embodying as it does the faith and 
the hope of so many long ages, it com- 
mends itself all the more from this cir- 
cumstance, to the faith and the hope of 
the Church of the present day. 

As has been said, the hymn, as we have 
it in our day, is only a small part of the 
composition as it stood in the Middle 
Ages, and as few of our readers have 
ever, in all probability, had the privilege 
of seeing it in its entirety, we take the 
pleasure here to insert it as a whole. 



150 #I|0rt BUtvuB 0f tt|^ %mn0 

The New Jerusalem 
I. 

O Mother dear, Jerusalem! 

When shall I come to thee? 
When shall my sorrows have an end- 

Thy joys when shall I see? 
O happy harbor of God's saints! 

O sweet and pleasant soil! 
In thee no sorrows can be found. 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

II. 

In thee no sickness is at all. 

No hurt nor any sore; 
There is no death nor ugly sight, 

But life for evermore. 
No dimmish clouds o'ershadow thee. 

No cloud nor darksome night; 
But every soul shines as the sun. 

For God himself gives light. 

m. 

There lust nor lucre cannot dwell, 
There envy bears no sway; 



Bl^fxtt BttivuB 0f % ^Qtnm 151 

There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. 

But pleasure every way. 
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 

Would God I were in thee! 
Oh that my sorrows had an end, 

Thy joys that I might see! 

IV. 

No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief. 

No woful wight is there; 
No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 

No well-away, no fear. 
Jerusalem the city is 

Of God our Eang alone; 
The Lamb of God the light thereof 

Sits there upon His throne. 



Ah God! that I Jerusalem 
With speed may go behold! 

For why? the pleasures there abound 
With tongue cannot be told. 

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles. 
With carbuncles do shine. 



152 ^t|0rt S^txtvitB 0f % Ifgmtta 



With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 
Surpassing pure and fine. 

VI. 

Thy houses are of ivory, 

Thy windows crystal clear, 
Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 

There angels do appear. 
Thy walls are made of precious stones, 

Thy bulwarks diamond square, 
Thy gates are made of Orient pearl — 

O God, if I were there! 

VII. 

Within thy gates no thing can come 

That is not passing clean; 
No spider's web, no dirt, no dust. 

No filth may there be seen. 
Jehovah, Lord, now come away, 

And end my grief and plaints; 
Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 

And place me with Thy saints. 



01y0rt 0t0m0 nf % %mttB 153 



VIII. 

Who there are crowned with glory great. 

And see God face to face; 
They triumph still and aye rejoice — 

Most happy is their case. 
But we that are in banishment. 

Continually do moan; 
We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 

Perpetually we groan. 

IX. 

Our sweetness mixed is with gall. 

Our pleasure is but pain. 
Our joys not worth the looking on — 

Our sorrows aye remain. 
But there they live in such delight. 

Such pleasure and such play. 
That unto them a thousand years 

Seem but as yesterday. 

X. 

O my sweet home, Jerusalem! 
Thy joys when shall I see? 
Thy King sitting upon His throne. 



154 #Ij0rt BttimB 0f % %mn0 

And thy felicity? 
Thy vineyards and thy orchards are 

So wonderful and fair, 
And furnished with trees and fruit. 

Most beautiful and rare. 

XI. 

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks, 

Continually are green; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers, 

As nowhere else are seen. 
There cinnamon and sugar grow. 

There nard and balm abound; 
No tongue can tell, no heart can think. 

The pleasures there are found. 

XII. 

There nectar and ambrosie spring — 

There musk and civet sweet; 
There many a fair and dainty drug 

Are trod down under feet. 
Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound. 

The flood of life doth flow; 
Upon the banks, on every side. 

The trees of life do grow. 



^I|0rt ^tiXvxtB 0f % %mtt0 155 



XIII. 

These trees each month yield ripened fruit- 
For evermore they spring; 

And all the nations of the world 

To thee their honours bring. 
Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place. 

Full sore I long to see; 
Oh that my sorrows had an end, 

That I might dwell in thee! 

XIV. 

There David stands, with harp in hand. 

As master of the queir; 
A thousand times that man were blessed 

That might his music hear. 
There Mary sings Magnificat, 

With tunes surpassing sweet; 
And all the virgins bear their part. 

Singing about her feet. 

XV. 

Te Deum doth St. Ambrose sing, 

St. Austin doth the like; 
Old Simeon and Zacharie 



156 Bl^nvt ^UmB 0f % %mnj0 

Have not their songs to seek. 
There Magdalene hath left her moan, 

And cheerfully doth sing, 
With all blest saints whose harmony 

Through every street doth ring. 

XVI. 

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 

Thy joys fain would I see; 
Come quickly. Lord, and end my grief, 

And take me home to Thee! 
Oh print Thy name in my forehead, 

And take me hence away. 
That I may dwell with Thee in bliss. 

And sing Thy praises aye! 

XVII. 

Jerusalem, thrice happy seat! 

Jehovah's throne on high! 
O sacred city, queen and wife 

Of Christ eternally! 
O comely queen, with glory clad. 

With honour and degree. 
All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 

No spot there is in thee. 



BliViXi ^t0n*0 0f % %mtw 157 



XVIII. 

I long to see Jerusalem, 

The comfort of us all; 
For thou art fair and beautiful — 

None ill can thee befall. 
In thee, Jerusalem, I say, 

No darkness dare appear; 
No night, no shade, no winter foul — 

No time doth alter there. 

XIX. 

No candle needs, no moon to shine, 

No glittering stars to light; 
For Christ, the King of Righteousness, 

There ever shineth bright. 
The Lamb unspotted, white and pure. 

To thee doth stand in lieu 
Of light — ^so great the glory is 

Thine heavenly King to view. 

XX. 

He is the King of kings, beset 

In midst His servants' sight; 
And they, His happy household all 



158 ^Iinrt ^t0nfja cf % ifjjmtw 

Do serve Him day and night. 
There, there the quier of angels sing; 

There the supernal sort 
Of citizens, which hence are rid 

From dangers deep, do sport. 

XXI. 

There be the prudent prophets all, 

The apostles six and six, 
The glorious martyrs in a row, 

And confessors betwixt. 
There doth the crew of righteous men 

And matrons all consist; 
Young men and maids that here on earth 

Their pleasures did resist. 

XXII. 

The sheep and lambs that hardly 'scaped 

The snares of death and hell, 
Triumph in joy eternally. 

Whereof no tongue can tell; 
And though the glory of each one 

Doth differ in degree. 
Yet is the joy of all alike 

And common, as we see. 



g>lj[0rt ^tam0 0f % l^gmna 159 



XXIII. 

There love and charity do reign. 

And Christ is all in all, 
Whom they most perfectly behold 

In joy celestial. 
They love, they praise — they praise, they love; 

They "holy, holy," cry; 
They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 

But laud continually. 

XXIV. 

happy thousand times were I, 
If, after wretched days, 

1 might with listening ears conceive 
Those heavenly songs of praise. 

Which to the eternal King are sung 

By happy wights above — 
By saved souls and angels sweet, 

Who love the God of Love! 

XXV. 

Oh passing happy were my state. 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and King, 



160 Blftitt ^orUa nf % %m«B 



His praises there to sound; 
And to enjoy my Christ above. 

His favour and His grace, 
According to His promise made. 

Which here I interlace. 

XXVI. 

"O Father dear," quoth He, "let them 

Which Thou hast put of old 
To me, be there where, lo, I am, 

Thy glory to behold; 
Which I with Thee before the world 

Was made, in perfect wise, 
Have had; from whence the fountain great 

Of glory doth arise." 

XXVII. 

Again: "If any man will serve 

Then let him follow me; 
For where I am, be thou, right sure. 

There shall my servant be. " 
And still: "If any man love me. 

Him loves my Father dear; 
Whom I do love, to him myself 

In glory will appear." 



^Ifort #t0rle0 of % %mtt0 161 



XXVIII- 

Lord, take away my misery. 

That there I may behold 
With Thee in Thy Jerusalem, 

What here cannot be told. 
And so in Zion see my King, 

My Love, my Lord, my All; 
Whom now as in a glass I see, 

There face to face I shall. 

XXIX. 

Oh! blessed are the pure in heart. 

Their Sovereign they shall see; 
And the most holy heavenly host. 

Who of His household be! 
O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands. 

These gins and fetters strong; 
For I have dwelt within the tents 

Of Kedar overlong! 

XXX. 

Yet search me. Lord, and find me out, 

Fetch me Thy fold unto, 
That all Thy angels may rejoice, 



While all Thy will I do. 
O mother dear, Jerusalem! 

When shall I come to thee? 
When shall my sorrows have an end- 

Thy joys when shall I see? 

XXXI. 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from all strife, 
That to thine hill I may attain. 

And dwell there all my life. 
With cherubims and seraphims 

And holy souls of men. 
To sing Thy praise, O God of Hosts! 

For ever, and Amen! 



^Ijori BtxtmB nf % IfgmttB 163 



CHAPTER XVI 

"The Celestial Country'' 

While speaking of hymns of aspira- 
tion for the heavenly state, we naturally 
recall certain other hymns which are to 
be found in nearly if not quite every good 
collection, such as — 

"The world is very evil, 
The times are waxing late'* — 

"Brief life is here our portion, 
Brief sorrow, short-lived care" — 

"For Thee, O dear, dear Country, 
Mine eyes their vigils keep" — 

"Jerusalem, the golden. 
With milk and honey blest" — 



164 Blituxt BtBxxtJS^ sxt % %mn0 

These, and some others of the same 
tenor, will be found in nearly all the 
hymn-books as accredited to John Mason 
Neale, Translator. John Mason Neale 
was born in London, 1818, graduated 
Trinity College, Cambridge, 1840. He 
was a prolific writer, especially of hymns 
and translations of hymns, and made 
the above translations from a very beau- 
tiful Mediaeval Latin hymn known as 
'The Celestial Country." It may be 
of some interest to us to know that he 
made his very worthy translation of this 
splendid hymn ''while inhibited from 
his priestly functions in the Church of 
England on account of his high ritual- 
isitic views and practice. He was so 
poor in consequence that he wrote 
stories for children, and composed and 
translated hymns for his living, but his 
poverty was overruled to the enrich- 
ment of all Christendom." 



§>I|0rt dtnrtw of % %mn0 165 

As in the case of the former hymn, 
"O Mother dear, Jerusalem,'' so here: 
these hymns above indicated are not to 
be supposed to be the work of John 
Mason Neale. He simply extracted 
them and most intelligently and skill- 
fully translated them from a very lengthy 
but very beautiful Mediaeval Latin 
hymn known as ''The Celestial Coun- 
try,'' dating to the middle of the twelfth 
century. 

The authorship of ''The Celestial 
Country" is commonly by scholars ac- 
credited to Bernard of Cluny, He was 
of English parentage, though born at 
Morlaix, a seaport town in the north of 
France. The exact date of his birth is 
not known; probably about 1100. He 
lived the Monastic life at Cluny, and but 
little is known of his history. He is not 
to be confounded with his contemporary 



166 ^i|0rt Btttma of % %mnja 

of the same name, Bernard of Clair- 
vaux. 

Bernard of Cluny lived at a time when 
the Church was torn by conflicting 
powers, when prelates and monks were 
alike corrupt, and the spiritual life of 
the Church was committed to the faith- 
ful few, and by them was kept alive. 
To his peace-loving heart the strife and 
turmoils of the world were a source of 
great sorrow, and as he lacked power or 
position to suppress them by force, he 
spent his time in writing, as by a divine 
inspiration, the ''De Contemptu Mundi'' 
("On The Contempt of the World"), a 
satire upon the iniquities of the age. 

This Latin poem, of nearly three 
thousand lines, he dedicated to his Abbot, 
Peter the Venerable. It is a bitter 
satire upon the corruptions of the times, 
but opens with a description of the 
peace and glory of heaven, and this part 



g>lj[0rt 0t0mBi rxf % Ifgrnna 167 

of the poem is so exquisite that it has 
for centuries excited universal admira- 
tion. ''The meter of the original is 
very strange, each line being broken up 
into three equal parts — a most difficult 
meter, and one which only a special 
grace and inspiration enabled the author, 
as he believed, to master. The follow- 
ing arrangement of the first lines will 
make this intelligible:'' 

"Hora novissima || tempora pessima || sunt: vigile- 
mus 
Ecce! minaciter II imminet arbiter || ille supre- 
mus!"* 

John Mason Neale made a most ex- 
cellent translation of a part of this 
wonderful hymn of Bernard of Cluny, 
and the hymns above indicated are 
simply brief extracts from this transla- 
tion. As the author of this little book 

* Schaff-Herzog Cyc. 



168 #l|0rt BtBtUB 0f % ^}smm 

is persuaded that comparatively very 
few of his readers have ever seen the 
whole of Neale's rendering of this famous 
hymn, he thinks well here to insert it. 
Its date is about A. D. 1150. 

The Celestial Country 

The world is very evil; 

The times are waxing late: 
Be sober and keep vigil; 

The Judge is at the gate: 
The Judge That comes in mercy, 

The Judge That comes with might, 
To terminate the evil. 

To diadem the right. 
When the just and gentle Monarch 

Shall summon from the tomb, 
Let man, the guilty, tremble. 

For Man, the God, shall doom. 
Arise, arise, good Christian, 

Let right to wrong succeed; 
Let penitential sorrow 

To heavenly gladness lead, 
To the light that hath no evening. 



^lynrt BtmwB af % %mttjB 169 



That knows nor moon nor sun, 
The light so new and golden, 

The light that is but one. 
And when the Sole-Begotten 

Shall render up once more 
The Kingdom to the Father 

Whose own it was before, — 
Then glory yet unheard of 

Shall shed abroad its ray, 
Resolving all enigmas, 

An endless Sabbath-day. 
Then, then from his oppressors 

The Hebrew shall go free. 
And celebrate in triumph 

The year of Jubilee; 
And the sunlit Land that recks not 

Of tempest nor of fight. 
Shall fold within its bosom 

Each happy Israelite: 
The Home of fadeless splendor, 

Of flowers that fear no thorn, 
Where they shall dwell as children. 

Who here as exiles mourn. 
Midst power that knows no limit, 

And wisdom free from bound, 



170 §i|0rt BtnmB ttf % %mtta 



The Beatific Vision 

Shall glad the Saints around: 
The peace of all the faithful, 

The calm of all the blest, 
Inviolate, unvaried, 

Divinest, sweetest, best. 
Yes, peace! for war is needless, — 

Yes, calm! for storm is past, — 
And goal from finished labour, 

And anchorage at last. 
That peace — but who may claim it? 

The guileless in their way, 
Who keep the ranks of battle. 

Who mean the thing they say: 
The peace that is for heaven. 

And shall be for the earth: 
The palace that re-echoes 

With festal song and mirth; 
The garden, breathing spices, 

The paradise on high; 
Grace beautified to glory. 

Unceasing minstrelsy. 
There nothing can be feeble. 

There none can ever mourn, 
There nothing is divided. 



^If0rt BtiXtxtB nf % %mn0 171 



There nothing can be torn: 
'Tis fury, ill, and scandal, 

'Tis peaceless peace below; 
Peace, endless, strifeless, ageless, 

The halls of Syon know: 
O happy, holy portion. 

Refection for the blest; 
True vision of true beauty. 

Sweet cure of all distrest! 
Strive, man, to win that glory; 

Toil, man, to gain that light; 
Send hope before to grasp it, 

Till hope be lost in sight: 
Till Jesus gives the portion 

Those blessed souls to fill. 
The insatiate, yet satisfied, 

The full, yet craving still. 
That fullness and that craving 

Alike are free from pain. 
Where thou, midst heavenly citizens, 

A home like theirs shalt gain. 
Here is the warlike trumpet; 

There, life set free from sin; 
When to the last Great Supper 

The faithful shall come in: 



172 g>I|ort BtavuB of % %mna 

When the heavenly net is laden. 

With fishes many and great; 
So glorious in its fulness, 

Yet so inviolate: 
And the p>erfect from the shattered, 

And the fall'n from them that stand, 
And the sheep-flock from the goat-herd 

Shall part on either hand: 
And these shall pass to torment. 

And those shall triumph, then; 
The new peculiar nation, 

Blest number of blest men. 
Jerusalem demands them: 

They paid the price on earth. 
And now shall reap the harvest 

In blissfulness and mirth: 
The glorious holy people, 

Who evermore relied 
Upon their Chief and Father, 

The King, the Crucified: 
The sacred ransomed number 

Now bright with endless sheen. 
Who made the Cross their watchword 

Of Jesus Nazarene: 
Who, fed with heavenly nectar, 



^Ifflrt Btfxtm of % f gmtta 173 

Where soul-like odours play. 
Draw out the endless leisure 

Of that long vernal day: 
And through the sacred Hlies, 

And flowers on every side, 
The happy dear-bought people 

Go wandering far and wide. 
Their breasts are filled with gladness, 

Their mouths are tun'd to praise 
What time, now safe for ever, 

On former sins they gaze: 
The fouler was the error. 

The sadder was the fall. 
The ampler are the praises 

Of Him Who pardoned all; 
Their one and only anthem. 

The fulness of His love. 
Who gives instead of torment. 

Eternal joys above: 
Instead of torment, glory; 

Instead of death, that life 
Wherewith your happy Country, 

True Israelites! is rife. 

Brief life is here our portion; 
Brief sorrow, short-lived care; 



174 Bljiart ^ttimB of % l^gmtta 

The life that knows no ending, 

The tearless life, is there. 
O happy retribution! 

Short toil, eternal rest; 
For mortals and for sinners 

A mansion with the blest! 
That we should look, poor wand'rers, 

To have our home on high! 
That worms should seek for dwellings 

Beyond the starry sky! 
To all one happy guerdon 

Of one celestial grace; 
For all, for all, who mourn their fall, 

Is one eternal place: 
And martyrdom hath roses 

Upon that heavenly ground: 
And white and virgin lilies 

For virgin-souls abound. 
There grief is turned to pleasure; 

Such pleasure, as below 
No human voice can utter, 

No human heart can know: 
And after fleshly scandal. 

And after this world's night. 
And after storm and whirlwind, 



g>I|0rt BtxxntB uf % %mtt0 175 

Is calm, and joy, and light. 
And now we fight the battle. 

But then shall wear the crown 
Of full and everlasting 

And passionless renown: 
And now we watch and struggle, 

And now we live in hope, 
And Syon, in her anguish. 

With Babylon must cope: 
But He Whom now we trust in 

Shall then be seen and known. 
And they that know and see Him 

Shall have Him for their own. 
The miserable pleasures 

Of the body shall decay: 
The bland and flattering struggles 

Of the flesh shall pass away: 
And none shall there be jealous; 

And none shall there contend: 
Fraud, clamour, guile — what say I? 

All ill, all ill shall end! 
And there is David's Fountain, 

And life in fullest glow, 
And there the light is golden, 

And milk and honey flow: 



176 &Ij0rt ^t0rt^0 nf % 



The light that hath no evening, 
The health that hath no sore, 

The life that hath no ending, 
But lasteth evermore. 

There Jesus shall embrace us. 

There Jesus be embraced, — 
That spirit's food and sunshine 

Whence earthly love is chased. 
Amidst the happy chorus, 

A place, however low. 
Shall shew Him us, and shewing. 

Shall satiate evermo. 
By hope we struggle onward, 

While here we must be fed 
By milk, as tender infants. 

But there by Living Bread. 
The night was full of terror. 

The morn is bright with gladness 
The Cross becomes our harbour. 

And we triumph after sadness: 
And Jesus to His true ones 

Brings trophies fair to see: 
And Jesus shall be loved, and 

Beheld in Galilee: 



^lynrt BUxxtB 0f % %mttB 177 

Beheld, when morn shall waken, 

And shadows shall decay. 
And each true-hearted servant 

Shall shine as doth the day: 
And every ear shall hear it; — 

Behold thy King's array: 
Behold thy God in beauty. 

The Law hath past away! 
Yes! God my King and Portion, 

In fulness of His grace. 
We then shall see for ever. 

And worship face to face. 
Then Jacob into Israel 

From earthlier self estranged. 
And Leah into Rachel 

For ever shall be changed: 
Then all the halls of Syon 

For aye shall be complete. 
And, in the Land of Beauty, 

All things of beauty meet. 

For thee, O dear, dear Country! 

Mine eyes their vigils keep; 
For very love, beholding 

Thy happy name, they weep: 



178 Bl^tivt BtuvxtB 0f % %mn0 



The mention of thy glory- 
Is unction to the breast, 
And medicine in sickness, 

And love, and life, and rest. 
O one, O onely Mansion! 

O Paradise of Joy! 
Where tears are ever banished, 

And smiles have no alloy; 
Beside thy living waters. 

All plants are, great and small, 
The cedar of the forest. 

The hyssop of the wall: 
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks; 

Thy streets with emeralds blaze; 
The sardius and the topaz 

Unite in thee their rays: 
Thine ageless walls are bonded 

With amethyst unpriced: 
Thy Saints build up its fabric. 

And the corner stone is Christ. 
The Cross is all thy splendour, 

The Crucified thy praise: 
His laud and benediction 

Thy ransomed people raise: 
Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 



Biititt BUmB txf % Ifjjmttfi 179 

True God and Man, they sing: 
The never-faiUng Garden, 

The ever-golden Ring: 
The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, 

The Guardian of his Court: 
The Day-star of Salvation, 

The Porter and the Port. 
Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! 

Thou hast no time, bright day! 
Dear fountain of refreshment 

To pilgrims far away! 
Upon the Rock of Ages 

They raise thy holy tower: 
Thine is the victor's laurel, 

And thine the golden dower: 
Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, 

O Bride that know'st no guile. 
The Prince's sweetest kisses. 

The Prince's loveliest smile; 
Unfading lilies, bracelets 

Of living pearl thine own; 
The Lamb is ever near thee. 

The Bridegroom thine alone; 
The Crown is He to guerdon. 

The Buckler to protect. 



180 Blituvt BtfxmB of % %mtt0 

And He Himself the Mansion 

And He the Architect. 
The only art thou needest, 

Thanksgiving for thy lot: 
The only joy thou seekest, 

The Life where Death is not: 
And all thine endless leisure 

In sweetest accents sings, 
The ill that was thy merit, — 

The wealth that is thy King's! 

Jerusalem the golden, 

With milk and honey blest, 
Beneath thy contemplation 

Sink heart and voice oppressed: 
I know not, O I know not. 

What social joys are there; 
What radiancy of glory. 

What Hght beyond compare! 
And when I fain would sing them. 

My spirit fails and faints; 
And vainly would it image 

The assembly of the Saints. 
They stand, those halls of Syon, 

Conjubilant with song. 



^I|0rt ^tBtitB 0f % %mtt0 181 



And bright with many an angel. 

And all the martyr throng: 
The Prince is ever in them; 

The daylight is serene; 
The pastures of the Blessed 

Are decked in glorious sheen. 
There is the Throne of David, — 

And there, from care released, 
The song of them that triumph. 

The shout of them that feast; 
And they who, with their Leader, 

Have conquered in the fight. 
For ever and for ever 

Are clad in robes of white! 

O holy, placid harp-notes 

Of that eternal hymn! 
O sacred, sweet refection, 

And peace of Seraphim! 
O thirst, for ever ardent. 

Yet evermore content! 
O true peculiar vision 

Of God cunctipotent! 
Ye know the many mansions 

For many a glorious name. 



And divers retributions 

That divers merits claim: 
For midst the constellations 

That deck our earthly sky, 
This star than that is brighter, — 

And so it is on high. 
Jerusalem the glorious! 

The glory of the Elect! 
O dear and future vision 

That eager hearts expect: 
Even now by faith I see thee: 

Even here thy walls discern: 
To thee my thoughts are kindled. 

And strive and pant and yearn. 
Jerusalem the onely, 

That look'st from heaven below 
In thee is all my glory; 

In me is all my woe: 
And though my body may not, 

My spirit seeks thee fain. 
Till flesh and earth return me 

To earth and flesh again. 
O none can tell thy bulwarks, 

How gloriously they rise: 
O none can tell thy capitals 



Bl^nvt ^t0m0 0f % %mn0 183 

Of beautiful device: 
Thy loveliness oppresses 

All human thought and heart. 
And none, O peace, O Syon, 

Can sing thee as thou art. 
New mansion of new people. 

Whom God's own love and light 
Promote, increase, make holy, 

Identify, unite. 
Thou City of the Angels! 

Thou City of the Lord ! 
Whose everlasting music 

Is the glorious decachord! 
And there the band of Prophets 

United praise ascribes. 
And there the twelvefold chorus 

Of Israel's ransomed tribes: 
The lily-beds of virgins. 

The roses' martyr-glow, 
The cohort of the Fathers 

Who kept the faith below. 
And there the Sole-Begotten 

Is Lord in regal state; 
He, Judah's mystic Lion, 

He, Lamb Immaculate. 



184 Bl^tttt S^ttxvxtB 0f % %mtt0 



O fields that know no sorrow! 
O state that fears no strife! 

princely bow'rs! O land of flow'rs! 

realm and home of life! 

Jerusalem, exulting 

On that securest shore, 

1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee. 
And love thee evermore! 

I ask not for my merit: 

1 seek not to deny 
My merit is destruction, 

A child of wrath am I: 
But yet with Faith I venture 

And Hope upon my way; 
For those perennial guerdons 

I labour night and day. 
The Best and Dearest Father 

Who made me and Who saved, 
Bore with me in defilement. 

And from defilement laved: 
When in His strength I struggle, 

For very joy I leap. 
When in my sin I totter, 

I weep, or try to weep: 



Bif^xt Btsntxtjsi 0f % %mtt0 185 



And grace, sweet grace celestial, 
Shall all its love display, 

And David's Royal Fountain 
Purge every sin away. 

O mine, my golden Syon! 

O lovelier far than gold! 
With laurel-girt batallions. 

And safe victorious fold: 
O sweet and blessed Country, 

Shall I ever see thy face? 

sweet and blessed Country, 
Shall I ever win thy grace? 

1 have the hope within me 
To comfort and to bless! 

Shall I ever win the prize itself? 
O tell me, tell me. Yes! 

Exult, dust and ashes! 

The Lord shall be thy part: 
His only. His for ever. 

Thou shalt be, and thou art! 
Exult, O dust and ashes! 

The Lord shall be thy part: 
His only. His for ever. 

Thou shalt be, and thou art! 



186 g^tforl BttivlSB 0f tl|f %mn0 



CHAPTER XVII 

In conclusion — it is well worthy of 
our thankful observation that the hymns 
of Christendom present an array of piety 
and scholarship truly admirable. They 
were written by some of the wisest and 
best men that ever lived; by writers of 
the highest literary qualification, by 
theologians of the profoundest ability, 
by College presidents and by University 
graduates. In the olden time God re- 
quired of the Jews that they should 
bring only ''beaten oil" for the light of 
His sanctuary and He still cares that the 
best talent and the most unquestioned 
piety should be employed in His Church, 
while at the same time He has not failed 
to set the seal of His approval to the 
fervid tributes of song offered by some 



Blifxtt ^tama xtf % Ifijmtta 187 

who were ignorant and illiterate in the 
things of man but wise in the things 
of God. For it must be conceded by 
every thoughtful and reverent person, 
that the hymns of the Church, whether 
written by men of culture or by men of 
no education, have ever been under the 
direction of divine providence. As 
some one has said — '^Men may discuss 
the nature and the scope of the inspira- 
tion of the scriptures, but of the inspira- 
tion of the hymn book I, for one, am 
fully persuaded. Here, surely, as well 
as in the scriptures, 'Holy men of old 
spake as they were moved by the Holy 
Ghost.'" 

But, how strange it seems that of all 
the exquisite hymns known and loved 
by the Church of the present day, not 
one was known to the Church of the 
first century of the Christian era. Even 
St. Paul never heard nor used any of our 



188 g^I|0rt S^tnmB 0f % %mn0 

hymns. Not even the long-meter dox- 
ology was sung in his day. In the 
PhiHppian jail ^^at midnight Paul and 
Silas prayed and sang praises to God/' 
and it is a matter of regret that ''Jesus, 
lover of my souF' was not known to 
them — it would have been so strangely 
fitting. 

Moreover, unknown as all of our 
hymns were to the early Church, equally 
unknown will they be to the Church in 
Heaven. They are our Pilgrim songs 
in our journey through the wilderness 
of this world, but not one of them will 
serve when we have at last crossed the 
Jordan and have laid the pilgrim's staff 
aside forever. 

The hymn that will there be sung — 
"the shout of them that triumph, and 
the song of them that feast,'' — will be a 
song that has never yet been written, 
at least by mortal man. As is said in 



g^lj[0rt Btttxm nf % ^1^mm 189 

the Book of Revelation, it will be ^'A 
New Song'' that the redeemed will sing. 

"Jesus, lover of my soul, 
Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
While the raging billows roll" — 

that will no longer do; for there the 
raging billows will no longer roll, in that 
blessed haven of eternal rest. And — 

"Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee; 
E'en though it be a cross 
That raiseth me" — 

this will no longer serve in that land 
where the cross will be forever exchanged 
for the crown of everlasting rejoicing. 
Nor will it fare any better with — 

"Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour dear, 
It is not night if Thou be near" — 

for ''There will be no night there." 



190 ^Ijort Btixmia nf % %mttB 

No, no. It will be a new song the re- 
deemed will sing, and it will be "'written 
in heaven/' "'And no man could learn 
that song but they that are redeemed/' 

""And I heard as the voice of a great 
multitude, and as the voice of many 
waters, and as the voice of mighty 
thunderings, saying — ^Alleluiah: for the 
Lord God Omnipotent reigneth/' 

Amen! 



Sv^tx of AuttjorH 191 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

Adams, Sarah, Mrs 36 

Bernard of Cluny 165 

Brooks, Phillips 114 

Brown, Phoebe H., Mrs 127 

Cowper, William 61 

Dickson, David 147 

Duiaaeld, George 101 

Dwight, Timothy 15 

Elliot, Charlotte 100 

Fawcett, John 20 

Gould, S. Baring 107 

Grigg, Joseph 85 

Harbaugh, Henry 81 

Heber, Reginald 88 

Keble, John H 131 

Ken, Thomas 138 

Key, Francis Scott 121 

Luther, Martin 53 



192 Unhtx 0f Autl|orj0i 

Lyte, Henry Francis 40 

Mason, Lowell 77 

Neale, John Mason 164 

Nelson, David 109 

Newman, John Henry 46 

Palmer, Ray 76 

Payne, John Howard 117 

Redner, L. H 114 

Robinson, Robert 12 

Root, George F 112 

Schmolke, Benjamin 48 

Toplady, Augustus 67 

Tyng, Dudley A 103 

Watts, Isaac 54 

Wesley, Charles 23 

Williams, William 70 

Winkworth, Miss 49 



MhtK 0f Itrmttjfl 193 



INDEX OF HYMNS 



PAGE 

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide 40 

All praise to Thee, my God, this night 144 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun 144 

Before Jehovah's awful throne 58 

Blest be the tie that binds 19 

Brief hfe is here our portion 163 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning . 91 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 98 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing 12 

For Thee, O dear, dear Country 163 

From Greenland's icy mountains 93 

God moves in a mysterious way 62 

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah 70 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God almighty 90 

Home, sweet Home 117 

I love Thy Kingdom, Lord 15 

I love to steal a while away 127 

Jerusalem the golden 163 



194 ^nhtx 0f Strmna 



Jesus, and shall it ever be 85 

Jesus Christ is risen today 90 

Jesus, I live to Thee 82 

Jesus, I my cross have taken 42 

Jesus, Lover of my soul 23 

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 57 

Jesus, to Thy Cross I hasten 81 

Joy to the world, the Lord is come 57 

Just as I am, without one plea 97 

Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 45 

Lo ! He comes with clouds descending 90 

My days are gliding swiftly by 109 

My faith looks up to Thee 76 

My Jesus, as Thou wilt 49 

My soul, repeat His praise 57 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 36 

O God, our help in ages past 57 

Oh for a closer walk with God 62, 66 

O Uttle town of Bethlehem 113 

O Mother dear, Jerusalem 147 

Onward, Christian soldiers 107 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow .... 130 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me 67 

Stand up, stand up, for Jesus 100 

Star spangled Banner 121 



3tihtK of %mtt0 195 

Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear 130 

The world is very evil ("The Celestial Coun- 
try'') 168 

There is a Fountain filled with blood 65 

There is a Land of pure delight 59 

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not 

deplore Thee 91 

When I survey the wondrous Cross 56 



NOV t8 1912 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: August 2005 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



r-^ 



'/ 



